


you've stolen my heart

by angrylizardjacket (ephemeralstar)



Series: I'm Gonna Have Myself A Real Good Time [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF, Queen (Band), The Dirt (2019), The Dirt (2019) Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Time Travel, all are over 1000 words u know i wouldn't do u dirty like that, blease leave me olone @ Queen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2019-08-19 19:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 74,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16540778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstar/pseuds/angrylizardjacket
Summary: Imagines originally posted on my Queen (and classic rock) blog on tumblr; @angrylizardjacketIndividual chapter summaries at the top of each chapter, as well as chapter-specific warnings.





	1. at ease {Roger Taylor}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @thetiniestfangirl asked: I was just wondering if you could do something sweet and soft for Roger (i’m in love with him lol)? Like just him and the reader snugglin, bein’ cute and domestic around the house? Thank you so much!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nowhere near as long as the last one. 1181 words. Im lov this boy (and by this boy, as I have stated previously, is BoRhap’s fictionalised version of Roger Taylor). Tried to make this as soft as possible. Lemme know what you think!

You’re lying on the sofa of your shared apartment, soft, worn leather smooth against your back, cool against the bare skin of your arms, there’s something jazzy on the radio, but it’s playing from another room, and besides, you kind of like it. There’s the indistinct murmur of voices coming from the other room and you contemplate pulling down the blanket that’s on the back of the sofa, since it’s getting a little cold, but you can’t be bothered. It’s Sunday, rain tapping a steady rhythm against the roof, a lingering haze drifting through the air, and there’s a warmth in your chest that won’t go away. There’s the sound of a door closing and you close your eyes, inhaling the scent of the rain damp air that’s drifting in through the open window, protected from the rain itself by the awning.

Roger’s in the other room, you can hear him start to hum, moving around the kitchen with practiced ease. 

“You want a drink?” He calls, not too loud, it’s a small apartment after all, but enough so you can hear. He sounds a little distracted. The kettle clicks on before you even answer.

“Tea, please.” You call back, finally reaching up to pull down the fluffy blanket, wrapping yourself up in it, smile growing wide as he calls back an affirmation. It feels like a dream, a warm unreality where you can hear the song die down only to be replaced with a cheerful presenter talking indistinctly, the clink of spoons against cups and the soft thump of the fridge being opened and closed.

When he brings the drinks in, he sets yours down on the coffee table, gently tapping your knee until you obligingly move your legs. Once he’s sat down, you wriggle to a sitting position, keeping your blanket-covered feet in his lap.

“EMI wants us to go to the middle of nowhere for the next album.” He mused with a slight grimace, cradling his own drink in his hands, which were resting gently on your shins. At your confused look, his frown deepens. “No distractions or something, I don’t know, ‘s not my idea.” 

“So I’m a distraction?” Your voice was sweet as you feigned the picture of innocence, reaching out to pick up your own teacup. It doesn’t match his, nothing in the apartment really matches, partly because it’s a habit leftover from his college days, partly because it’s technically in style, but he’s always favoured the garish yellow and green striped mug, and you were never very picky, though you thought the tall, terracotta coloured one he picked this time was rather cute.

When you look back at him, he’s squinting at you, though his frown has disappeared and he seems to be edging on a smile. The two of you hold eye contact for a long while, as if it’s a challenge, and the tension snaps only when you raise your lips to take a sip, and he breaks into a grin, which only made you snort into your drink, which ended up with scolding hot tea on your chest and face. Despite the slight burning sensation, you couldn’t help but laugh at the situation, even as you put your tea back on the coffee table and reached for the box of tissues.

“I think you count as a distraction.” Roger chuckles, watching as you try and pat up the spilled liquid, and you’re ready to feign indignance, but when you look up, the fondness in his expression catches you off guard. He’s holding your gaze, wearing that smile that creases just under his eyes and makes him look younger, a little mischievous, despite the sincerity in his eyes, the smile that always makes your heart beat a little faster. He had one hand holding his tea to his chest, the other gently resting on your leg, thumb moving in a comforting rhythm that you can feel through the blanket. There’s that warm feeling in your chest again. It takes a moment, but you find your own smile turning cheeky.

“I aim to please.” You grin, and sit up, giving pause for Roger to put his own drink down before you moved across the sofa to curl up against him. He moves with practiced ease, wrapping one arm around your shoulders whilst fluffing out the blanket so it evenly covered you both with the other.

“I  _know_  you do.” He chuckled, expression knowing, though he’s still fixing the blanket, so he misses your own amused and knowing expression. His hand is warm against your shoulder and thigh, where the other comes to rest, a contrast to the cool air, and you feel goosebumps rise along your exposed skin, which just makes you want to move closer.

Without hesitation, you move to kiss his cheek, but the movement makes him turn, and you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Leaning back a little, he grins, holding you just a little tighter.

“Missed.” He smirks, moving his hand from your thigh to lift your chin gently, leaning in to kiss you. His fingers ghost in a light pattern on your arm, which has you smiling against him as you move closer, the kiss threatening to turn to something less chaste the way his hand has moved back to your thigh.

“So you think I need practice aiming?” You ask with a barely stifled giggle as you break away, and Roger hums thoughtfully.

“I think I can help.” He said, with all the mock-seriousness he could muster, before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Not here.” He told you, repressing a smile at your sweet smile. This time, he pressed a kiss to your cheekbone. “Not there either.” He went in to kiss your nose but you pulled back, trying not to laugh, and when he moved back, you could see he was grinning too, amused by his own exploits.

“Then where?” You asked, tipping your head to the side, the leather sofa cool against your ear. Moving his hand slowly, Roger reached to tap at his lips, grinning in the way that set your heart aflutter. 

When you kiss him this time it’s slow and deliberate, one of your hands against his cheek, moving to thread your fingers through his hair, trying to be as close to him as possible as his lips move against yours, tasting a little smokey, but mostly like tea as you deepened the kiss. Gently, he lowers you back to lying on the sofa, he’s pressed against you, wiry and firm and warm.

“Yeah, you’re my favourite distraction.” He mused with a smirk, leaning back, arm by your head propping him up so he could look down at you. Despite his cocky facade, he leaned into your touch as you tucked his hair behind his ear. “Don’t worry, I won’t be gone long.”

“Well then we’d better start making up for lost time.” You grinned, and his gaze drifted further down to your figure, before you’re pulling him in for another kiss.

“I aim to please.”


	2. time's arrow {Roger Taylor}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Hi, I love your roger/ben imagines so much and was wondering if you could do some angst with Roger x female, maybe they are good friends and she sees him with another. Whatever you would like! Thank you x :) 
> 
> A story through Seasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2727 words. I took a little bit of liberties with the prompt, if that’s okay? This hit me like a lightning bolt and I had to write it. Angst with a happy ending. (I’m just trying to show I’ve got versatility in writing, okay?)
> 
> Warnings: Implied sex.

You meet him in Spring, before it all begins, he sits up the back of your Intro to Head and Neck Anatomy lectures, the only class with open spots available by the time you were looking for a science credit. You find out he’s in a band three weeks into the first class, finally going to the local bar, sick of cramming your brain full of information you’re not even sure is necessary for your degree. He grins at you and  _wow_ okay, you didn’t even think he’d recognise you.

“You’re in, um,” he’s leaning against the bar next to you in this dimly lit pub, grabbing a drink between sets. Faltering for a moment, his eyes travel down before you clear your throat, angry at yourself for blushing, but his smile widens, “my class.” He finishes, taking a sip of his beer. You agree, rolling your eyes at him, but even that seems to amuse him. He asks your name. The guitarist is calling him over, setting up for the next set, but you tell him before he leaves. Something tightens in your chest when, later that night, he catches your eyes mid-song, his look of intense focus shifting for a moment as he grins, giving you a wink.

He takes to sitting next to you in lectures, chewing the end of his pencil and taking occasional notes in a falling apart notebook that looks as though he uses it for every class. You catch lyrics in the margins and at the bottom of some pages, but he’s cagey about that in a strange way, just says you’ll have to come to a gig to find out what they’re about. So you do.

Gigs become a regular for you, and you start to become friends with the girls who frequent the shows, often hosting predrinks in your dorm room for Mary and her friends on a Friday night. You learn on one of those nights that at least two of the girls have hooked up with him, and there’s a strange, sinking sensation in your chest. You’re not sad, or at least, you tell yourself you shouldn’t be. You and Roger are just friends, it’s not like there’s anything going on there, sure, sometimes after a really good show he’ll give you a pash, but it’s- that’s just  _him_. 

It’s not like you’ve never thought about it, but you also know his reputation, and that it’ll do more harm than good to get involved with that. He’s the one mistake you don’t think you want to make.

* * *

It’s Summer, a few years later, when they trade in the van to get money to hire the recording studio. Roger had really loved that van, and he lay on your sofa for a solid hour grumbling about it, about how Freddie had some kind of  _nerve._ You roll your eyes at him, call him a drama queen, which he takes offence to, but moves obligingly when you sit down, letting him rest his head in your lap.

When you raise the point that it might be worth it, he looks frankly aghast, griping about how he has to catch lifts everywhere now. He calms down somewhat when you start carding your fingers through his hair, though he still pouts.

“If it comes to it, I’ll buy you a car, you baby.” You snort, despite the fact that you’re currently barely making a living wage on some retail job, it’s not where you’d thought you’d be after university, but sometimes that’s just how it is. He looks up at you, and when you look down at him, he’s looking very intense. Perhaps he might say something poignant about your offer, you think, but instead he reaches up and pokes your nose.

“I can see up your nostrils.” He tells you, and you smack his hand away, scowling. You stand abruptly, ignoring his complaints, smoothing your pants out against your thighs.

“Come on,” you offer your hand, which he regards with both confusion and a bit of disdain, “you can’t mope around my apartment and complain about the band again. We’re going out.” That gets his interest.

You’ve been to bars with him before, and usually you go home alone while he gets the pick of the prettiest girls of the night, or he decides to wingman you, which hurts your heart a little, but you won’t decline. You were attractive in your own right, you won’t deny that, you didn’t technically need his help, but a selfish part of you likes the way the attention to you, even if it’s to help you get with other people.

Tonight is different, tonight he doesn’t leave your side, he slings an arm around you as the two of you stand by the bar watching the truly mediocre band they had on that night. 

“You know why they aren’t recording an album?” You ask as the set ends.

“Because they didn’t sell their van?” Roger mused, vaguely bitter, but not melancholy as he swirled the last of his drink in his free hand.

“No, it’s because they’re terrible.” Turning, you smile at your own blunt remark, and when he looks back at you, he’s grinning with a little disbelief. There’s very little space between the two of you, but that doesn’t make your heart race anymore, he’s your best friend, close contact was part of the bargain. But he kissed you, quickly, without warning, and when he pulls back, he turns away to order another drink like nothing had happened.

Your mind is spiralling, this isn’t post-gig excitement, this wasn’t something you were expecting. The selfish creature in your chest that you tried to deny for so long was crowing with victory. Taking a quick look around the bar, you don’t recognise anyone, though there are a few girls who look like they’d be his type- but his hand is moving to wrap around your waist as he turns back.

“What was that?” Voice quiet, you take his drink and have a sip of it yourself, the movement done from muscle memory alone. He raises his eyebrows at you, not regarding the drink, that was a usual occurrence, but at the question. He doesn’t seem to know how to answer, baffled at the question. Dropping you gaze, you take a sip of your own drink. “Why me? Why tonight?” You asked. Looking incredulous, he stepped back, looking you over.

“Have you seen yourself tonight, love? Couldn’t help myself.” You’ve heard him talk like this before, to other girls, not as blunt, but with you he can get away with it. The creature in your chest is elated, and you find yourself smiling, actually blushing. He moves closer once more, his arm around you, voice low as he spoke into your ear. “Trust me, you look  _very_ fit tonight, any man would be lucky to have a crack at you.” Heart in your throat, you hope you’re reading the situation right, at the same time ignoring the part of you that knew this was a bad idea.

“Even you?” You turned to face him, watching the way his smile shifted to a smirk, and he pulled you a little closer.

“You know I’m always feeling lucky.” 

You kiss him, feeling your blood thumping in your veins, selfish and excited in equal measure, but with his hands on you, you can’t find the focus to care about the former. 

Once the bad starts up again, Roger pulls away, making a face at them, asking if you wanted to get out of there. You do, and the two of you are elated on the quick walk back to his apartment, stopping only when he pressed you up against the wall of an closed shop to suck a hickey into the skin of your neck. You catch sight of it in his bedroom mirror, but he’s pulling off your jacket and you have better things to worry about.

It’s not weird, like you thought it would be, when you wake the next morning and he’s curled up, fast asleep with his back to you, but your chest aches just a little. He avoids eye contact over breakfast, though you chat like normal. The gripes about his van have died down, though he makes an offhand comment about things are changing that you read enough into to realise what had happened.

“You’ll always have me, Rog.” You reach across the table to take his hand, and he finally looks you in the eye, he looks  _so relieved,_ not that he’d ever say it. Afraid of losing another thing he cared about, he had panicked last night and tried to keep you close in the only way he knew how. He certainly loved you, but not in the way you wanted him to. Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, you give him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. It’s not his fault.

* * *

_Bohemian Rhapsody_ airs in Autumn, you’re regional manager now, and you’re sitting in your office when you hear for the first time; you almost scream when the first harmony comes in after the radio host introduces the song.

“You’re a  _star,_ Rog!” You gush over the phone on your break, unable to wait until that night when the band was having a celebratory get-together to talk to him.

“Of course, I am, you think I sing that high to be paid in peanuts?” You can hear the smile in his words without even seeing him, and being able to hear his voice warms your heart.

“That was you?” You laugh, the ‘ _Galileo's_ playing back in your head, and you try to picture him singing it, which only made you laugh harder.

“Oi,” he bristled, indignant at your laughter, “I’m the only one with the range to execute Freddie’s vision.” You could see him in your mind now, proud and stubborn, standing tall to defend the decision.

“I’m proud of you.” Suddenly sincere, you find your smile turning to something more genuine as you think back on far he’s come.

“Thank you.” His own voice has become less animated, more sincere, though you can still hear him smiling.

“Love you, Rog.” You tell him, just as you always did when you parted ways.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

He’s grinning, draped with casual confidence in an armchair in Freddie’s living room when you arrive, and you feel like you’ve been taken back five years, the casual enthusiasm he’s exerting. Smile brightening, he stands when he sees you, striding across the room to enfold you in a hug.

“Good to see you!” He practically beams at you, holding your shoulders as he looks over you, as if assessing you, seeing if anything has changed.

“Of course, you’ve been holed up for weeks, I wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Though he’s in front of you, you’re words address the room as a whole, and when he steps back, Brian moves in to hug you as well, asking how you’ve been.

The boys are your friends, all of them, you’ve been around for most of their big band moments, and it eases something in your chest to be here for this one too. But then the ease sharply tightens as a woman you’ve never seen before sits on the arm of Roger’s chair, and he rests a hand on her thigh, smiling up at her.

Mary follows your gaze, and her smile is sad as she pulls you down to sit beside her, asking you about your thoughts on the single. You answer, though your heart’s not in it, and the selfish creature in your chest rears it’s ugly head after such a long slumber. 

The monster has shifted, changed and grown, it hadn’t cared about him running around with any pretty girl he could find for the past few years, but this was different. Roger had made it clear that he was far from sacred, but this was the band, this was Freddie’s home, this was the place of some of your happiest memories; this was  _yours._

You stay well into the early hours of the following morning, despite the interloper, but Roger still stopped you at the door.

“I’m really glad you could make it, I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.” He’s smiling at you, but you don’t smile back. It’s been a long night of being kind and pretending that you’re heart didn’t hurt.

“Well, you’ve very busy.” You shrug, punctuating it with a yawn. His expression turns confused, and you open the door.

“Y/N.” He tried to get your attention, but you left, throwing a goodbye over your shoulder to him. “Love you.” He calls through the door, but you stay quiet, refuse to say it back, just keep walking. You’re too tired to be upset, but maybe you’ll get there tomorrow.

Things change, and you’ve grown to accept that, but sometimes old aches don’t heal like they should. Or at all.

* * *

“I’m getting married.” He calls you at the end of Winter.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” 

Your relationship’s been on the mend in the years since the  _Bohemian Rhapsody_ launch night. You two smile and laugh like you had when you were younger, and you’ve learned to listen to his exploits and his gripes about women, offering your own about your partners, though they’re few and far between. He’s still your best friend, and you learn to act like it. 

“Congratulations.” Your voice is flat. It had been a shock, you’d heard about his latest on-again off-again girlfriend, and had even offered advice in certain situations, actual advice, no malice at all.

“Thanks.” He doesn’t seem to know where to go from here, and silence stretches out between the two of you.

“I should go.” You finally murmur.

“What? Why?” He spluttered, and you sighed deeply.

“Was there something else you wanted to talk about?” You asked, closing your eyes and leaning your forehead against the wall.

“I- no, but I want you to be there.” He paused. “And I wanted to be the one to tell you.” Clenching your jaw, you make a snap decision.

“I can’t-”

“Why not?” He actually sounded angry, which was perhaps warranted, though your next words shut him up.

“Because it  _hurts_ , Roger.” After a beat, your voice is quiet. “Because I love you.” Taking a breath, you let yourself relax. “I want you to be happy, but I can’t watch you marry someone else.” There’s silence for a very long moment, but you hang up before he can respond. You take the phone off the hook. You need to be alone, just for now.

* * *

“After everything, you still-?” It’s the first day of Spring, and he’s on your doorstep, seemingly unable to say the word love. You’re wearing your pyjamas and he looks like he’s just walked out of a Rolling Stone cover shoot, though he just sort of looks like that now, you supposed.

“Don’t worry about it.” You try not to betray how much his visit shocked you, or the way his very presence after your recent conversation hurt you.

“You’re my best friend! Of course I’m gonna worry about it!” He threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. Sighing deeply, he stepped forward. “I thought I fucked everything up when we hooked up, I’m sorry, I panicked.” He was looking at his fidgeting hands, rather than your surprised expression. “And then… I thought I fucked it up again when I chose the band over you.”

“You never-” You tried to protest, but he smiled self-deprecatingly.

“No, I did. I loved you, and I thought that would get in the way of the band.” Clenching his jaw, he looked up and you could see the regret in his eyes. “It was easier to fuck around that tell you I love you.” Your breath stopped in your throat as he finally walked closer. “And I thought after everything, that you deserved better; you know what I’m like, why would you-?” But you cut him off with a kiss.

“You’ll always have me.” You murmured, finally letting yourself smile. Nothing about it felt selfish, in fact, it felt as though the sun was finally shining on you, warming you from the inside out.

“I know,” he agreed quietly, wrapping you up in a hug.


	3. limited eternity {Freddie Mercury}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: I have a request. Can you please write a cute little fluffy imagine for Freddie with a male reader. I don’t care what it’s about, I just need one. I’m a gay little bitch for him and can’t find any male reader fics 
> 
> Anon asked: Freddie x time traveler reader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2649 words. So it’s a bit confusing and no I don’t know how the time travel power works it just does. Have fun, I did. Male pronouns for reader.

The universe spits you out outside a pub on the outskirts of London. Disoriented, cold, and lonely, you do the only thing you could trust in this situation; you followed the music. By the time you see posters advertising ‘ _Don’t Forget to Smile’_ across the side of the building, you know you’re in the right place.It’s dimly lit, just like last time, which you suppose, for everyone else is  _next time_ , but it doesn’t matter. 

The golden glow of the overhead lights, and the parcans shining on the band through the haze of the smoke-filled bar feels so much like home that you feel like you might cry. It feels like you’ve spent months here, but you’re not even sure how long ago that was- how far away it’s going to be.

But it doesn’t matter, he’s there. You can see him leaning awkwardly against the bar, cradling a pint and watching the band set up.

“Oh fuck, I’ve missed you so much, I didn’t know where it would spit me out, I’m sorry-” You run up to him, wrapping your arms around him, grinning larger than you feel like you’ve ever done before. You’re watch is broken, you don’t know what year it is, but you’d recognise that smile anywhere.

“Excuse me?” The voice you’ve come to know so well pushes you away, frowning at you, stepping back until his back is against the bar. “And who exactly  _are_ you?” 

Something in your chest sinks as the realisation hits you; there’s nothing in his eyes that says he knows you, no spark of mischief, not even the polite confusion you’d seen the past few times... there was nothing.

“I’m at the start. This, tonight, this is the start.” You say it more to yourself than him. Your heart aches as you remember the first time you met him, how the situation had played almost in reverse; this Freddie, still legally Farrokh Bulsara, you realise has  _no idea_ what’s about to come, and is still looking at you like you’ve grown an extra head.

“Sorry, man,” trying to save face, you step back, “I thought you were someone else.” That seems to placate him, and to your credit, your hand doesn’t shake when you hold it out. “Y/N.” You introduce yourself, smiling brightly, even though you knew what this meeting meant.

“Freddie.” He takes your hand and it’s  _warm_. God, you just wanna kiss him, just like you had done hundreds of times before, but you can’t. 

“Maybe it isn’t so bad.” Taking a set beside him at the bar, you order yourself a drink, and smile at Brian and Roger fumbling, compared to what you know they’re capable of, through a set with a singer that has  _nothing_ on Freddie. “Perhaps it’s the start of a the world’s greatest love story.” Wiggling your eyebrows, suggestively, Freddie looks a little unnerved, before your comedic persistence with the bit has him laughing, a sound that brightens the whole world around you. The two of you cheers, and you try not to think about what’s to come. 

 _It’s the start of his love story,_ you think,  _but it’s is the end of it for me._

* * *

You genuinely don’t know how it started; you were living your life, and one day, you were pulled backwards through time, dumped some point in the past, with no rhyme or reason, sometimes for months at a time. The only warning you got before you were pulled back again was a day of nausea, then it’s like you’re swallowed by the universe.

* * *

“Y/N! Darling! What are you doing out here?” Freddie spots you as you stand up in the middle of a field on the English country side. It’s the second time he’s seen you turn up out of nowhere after that first night he’s spotted you in the bar. Looking to him, you beam; he likes that about you, you always seem happy to see him.

“Sometimes I just am places!” You call back, bright and chipper. The last thing you remember was explaining to him your situation, so this Freddie wouldn’t know what had happened. That was yet to come. He knows your name, he’s calling you darling, at least that means he knows you, he likes you.

They’ve still got the van, but by the gleam in Freddie’s eye, and the paper in his hands, that’s not going to be the case for long; you’d heard this story many times before.

The universe lets you stick around for a while, this time; almost six months, crashing in Roger and Brian’s shareflat, paying rent with money you’d collected over the time you’ve spent hoping backwards. Once you get your bearings on the year, 1971, you realise that this is the stop that solidifies your friendship with the band. For all previous stops they’ve loved you, so this must be the starting point.

The moment you hear Freddie’s voice comes crooning in as he records for their first album, you feel yourself sink into the sofa you’re sharing with Mary and the kind young woman Roger’s brought with him, though you’ve never seen her before, so you know she’s not a main-stay, the poor girl; at least she’s having fun.

You’re all ecstatic by the time the night’s over, all but bouncing all over the place as the band experiments with different styles, and when you leave, you offer to walk Freddie home. The whole while when you walked, you couldn’t help but gush; this is  _the start of everything_ , and Freddie knows, because Freddie has high hopes, but he doesn’t  _know_ the way you do.

“You’re gonna be a  _star_ , Freddie.” The two of you walk arm-in-arm, beneath the streetlights, he’s glowing with endorphins from the recording session. Usually you try not to spoil the future for him, let him find out himself, but you couldn’t help yourself. It’s not even that much of a spoiler, it’s just what he has planned for himself.

“I know, darling, and you’re going to be right by my side.” He holds you to his side a little tighter, smiling at you, and your heart melts a little at the sight. “Can I ask you something?” He asked, expression turning from joyful to thoughtful. You nod; you couldn’t lie to him if you’d wanted to. “Are you married, dear?” The question comes out of nowhere, and it feels like for the first time during the walk you can feel the way he’s playing with the simple, gold ring on your wedding finger. Bright mood sobering considerably, you halt in your step, extracting your arm from where it was tucked into his, playing with the wedding ring yourself now.

“Not- not technically speaking.” It’s a difficult situation for you to maneuver, and you half laughed, “We couldn’t get married. Not legally.” It’s as if you can see the cogs turning over in Freddie’s head as he pieces together what you’re saying. “I promised him I’d always wear it, though.” And there it is, the light bulb moment. 

It’s an interesting face-journey that he goes on; realisation, confusion, thoughtfulness, a little bit of concern, but then there’s a gentle smile as he awkwardly offered his hand. Let out a breath you hadn’t realised you had been holding; coming out to Freddie had never been something you’d had to do before, he’d always just known. In the future he loves you, but right now? It hurts a little to think you weren’t sure how he would react, he hasn’t completely come into himself yet.

He tucks your arm back into his, and the two of you continue along the street, silence broken once you mention how excited for the album you are. The moment has passed, and he’s smiling at you again.

* * *

“Y/N! Glad to see the universe spat you out in time for my show!” You’re standing in Freddie’s dressing room, looking confused as all hell, when he emerges from the bathroom in his sparkly shorts. It’s the sixth time you’ve met on his timeline, and he’s grinning at you with that spark of mischief in his eyes. 

“Hey Freds, where am I exactly?” You ask, walking to the door and sticking your head out. Brian waves to you where he’s tuning his guitar in the hallway.

“Japan, darling.” Freddie explains, before turning and striking a pose for you. “What do we think?” He asked, to which you grinned at his antics.

“You’ve got great gams, Fred.” Taking a seat in front of the dresser, you watch his expression turn to something proud, and he walks over to you, standing behind you, putting his hands on your shoulders, the two of you looking at each other in the mirror.

“I know, but the outfit, does it-?” He mused, and you snorted.

“You know I think you look hot no matter what you wear-” and as soon as you say it, your brow furrows, “wait- do you know? Have we had that conversation yet?” At your panic, Freddie’s expression softens.

“Yes, my little time-traveller.” He gently scratches at your scalp, smile soft as you lean into the touch. “After the show, we’ll have a whole ‘nother big discussion.” He promised, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Even under the small gesture you feel like you’re melting with happiness.

“The universe keeps throwing us together.” He says after the show, towelling off his hair and falling onto the sofa beside you.

“It certainly seems like that.” You agree with a small, knowing smile. Catching sight of it, Freddie seems to stop for a moment, lost in the expression, and you see him mirror it.

“I like you, Y/N, and not for some universe-spanning reason, though it is what we deserve.” Brushing his hair over his shoulder for effect, he leaned against the sofa, facing you, and you think you know what he’s getting at. “In the future, do I love you?” He knows you don’t like spoiling the future, but the look in his eyes, you can’t keep this from him.

“Yes.”

“And in the future, do you love me?” He asked, gently, moving to take your hand.

“From moment I meet you.” And at your words, he’s smiling, lifting your joined hands to kiss your knuckles.

“Of course, darling, who wouldn’t?” He chuckles, and finally the moment breaks, and you feel yourself grinning. “Every time you disappear, I take time to find myself, because,” and he dropped your gaze, still smiling, though it’s sweet and genuine, “I find myself getting lost whenever you’re around.” 

“Is that good?” You asked, tentatively. Freddie smiles in the way that makes your heart melt, warm and fond, bright enough that it lights up the world around you.

“It’s good, because now I’ve found myself, and my way back to you.”

* * *

“So Y/N’s your... boyfriend?” Roger squinted between the two of you on the plane back to England. “How does that work with the whole time-travel thing?” He asked, and Freddie shrugs.

“It just does.”

* * *

It’s the thirteenth time you’ve come back on his timeline, and you were dropped into the middle of his apartment. It’s a golden afternoon, sunlight streaming through the windows, the cats lined up in the puddles of sunlight, all alseep, just like Freddie, on the sofa. His eyes open slowly, a grin spreading across his face as you perch yourself on the sofa beside him. Opening his arms, he beckons you into his embrace.

“Welcome back, darling.” He murmurs, and the two of you nap in the afternoon sunlight, warm and content with one another.

“I had a revelation,” he tells you over dinner a few nights later, he’s looking like he’s almost bursting with excitement, and you just give him a confused look; “it’s always been my ring.” He says, voice soft, but you still don’t understand. Standing from his chair, he moves around the table to you, getting down on one knee; your eyes widen as he pulls out a ring box. “The only tragedy of time’s greatest romance is that I can’t actually marry you right here and now.” His voice is so soft, and your eyes well up with tears as he opens the box to reveal a singular, gold ring; he’s told you this story so many times before, but it still hits you to see him looking up at you with so much love and adoration. “Maybe one day in my future, or your past, or whatever it is, we can, because I love you, Y/N.” After a beat, his smile turns hopeful, and you find yourself nodding before he even asks the question, which just sets him off with nervously happy laughter. “Will you marry me?” 

“Of course, Fred.” You laugh, hands shaking as you pull the ring from the box and slipping it onto your finger. “I’ll never take it off.” You whisper, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him in for a kiss. Tossing the box to the side, he pulls you both to your feet, hands on your face as he kisses you back.

“I know, I’ve never seen you without it.” He pulls back to murmur, and the realisation, the way everything has started to make sense in his mind, it shines through in his smile. 

“In the past, do I love you?” You ask gently, and Freddie grins, his mind flashing to the bar meeting.

“From the moment I meet you.”

* * *

“It makes no sense, Fred, proposing.” It’s late, you and Freddie lying side-by side on the bed in his mansion. He’s got his arm extended above you both, watching his own ring that you had gotten for him the day after he proposed to you, but that had been a few stops ago, and though you know that it’s still to happen, the logistics don’t make sense to you right now. “I keep going back and you keep going forwards; we can’t-”

“Darling, it’s the principle of the thing.” He turned on his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “I’ve seen you for years, and you’re  _always_ wearing that ring, and the minute I realised it was mine,” he sighed for a moment, wistful, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, “I’ve never loved anyone or anything more.”

* * *

“Oh,  _dude,_ you’re  _Freddie Mercury_!” He’d know your voice anywhere. Coming off the stage from Live Aid, he sees you being chased by security guards and he wants to laugh. So  _this_ is how it all starts.

“Y/N.” Catching you by the shoulder, he turns to the guards with a bright smile. “Don’t worry, he’s with me.” Freddie waives them off, and you look so star struck. It’s the thirty-eighth stop on his timeline, and according to what you’ve told him, your last. Or first, depending on how you look at it. 

“You know my name?” You ask, voice small and nervous. Freddie tries not to let it show just how much the words he’s about to speak hurt his heart.

“Of course I do,” and he wraps an arm around your shoulder as he leads you back to the band’s trailer, “this is the start of the world’s greatest romance!” He declares, and you move out of his grip, avoiding his gaze.

“That’s probably not true.” You give him a weak smile and go to head away, but he calls after you. Turning back, he’s suddenly serious.

“Y/N,” and he says your name like he knows you.

“There’s... Mr Mercury, I’m not normal.” You try, but his smile grows fond.

“I know,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

“F-Freddie?” You try tentatively, and he nods for you to continue. “Will... will I see you again?” And his lips twist into a smile.

“Yes, you will.”


	4. a process {John Deacon}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Could you write something where reader (possibly in the band) and deaky are totally in love with each other but both are too shy to say anything and oblivious to see the others feelings but at the end the get together and it’s 100% fluff? Thank u sm your fics are gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3169 words. If I recall, some people wanted some Deaky fic?? He’s so lovely and this was a lot of fun to write!! Again, this is the BoRhap!Deaky. Also I wrote half of this at work; this is university funded fic ladies and gentlemen.

“Alright, boys, jus’ letting you know we’ve got a new intern in today; Y/N, she’s going to be shadowing me.” The sound designer, Earl, a skinny gentleman who always seemed to be wearing black, denim shorts no matter the weather, announces your arrival over the microphone to the recording studio where the band was discussing what song to practice next. In the next moment, you have four pairs of eyes all watching you through the glass of the sound studio, and you give a nervous wave back.

“Hello.” You offer, awkwardly, and Earl leans in to the microphone on the desk.

“She says hello.” He informs the others, and you feel like an idiot. Fortunately, the men all wave back, giving quick greetings of their own, before going back to their discussion.

“They’re good.” Earl, pulled up a spare chair for you by the desk, checking the levels as they started up on a new song. From anyone else, the words would sound like a mild compliment at best, but from Earl, who you’ve known practically forever, he was a friend of the familys’, and he did not shy away from complaining about the ‘ _teeny bopper drivel_ ’ he had to make sound half-decent, you knew it was closer to a round of applause.

* * *

“Intern? Does that mean you get us drinks?” They’re actually recording now, one at a time, while the rest of them lounged around on the other side of the room with you. You’re perched on the edge of your chair by the sound desk when the drummer, Roger, speaks to you. Their lead singer, Freddie was at that moment, currently in the recording studio, crooning into the microphone with his headphones on, and it takes you a moment to turn and consider what he had said.

“I mean… yeah, I guess?” Looking to Earl to either confirm or deny the request, he’s focused on the sound desk, just waves you off with a distracted affirmation. A grin stretches over Roger’s face.

“Bourbon, thanks.” And his grin only got wider at your sudden confusion.

“Water for him.” Pipes up the bass player, John, sitting against the wall with his ankles crossed, smiling up at you. “And one for me too, if it’s not too much trouble.” Relieved, you smiled back at him despite Roger’s protests. “You want anything, Bri?” John asked their guitarist, and you ended up getting drinks for everyone. Thankful that they kept fresh bottles in the break room, you returned as Freddie stepped out of the sound booth, and his recording was played back. His smile was stiff as you handed him a water bottle, though it was probably because he was trying to concentrate on the playback of his vocals than any malice towards you. Roger accepted the drink begrudgingly, and Brian smiled at you.

“I’m John, by the way.” Holding out his hand to you, you bent down to shake John’s hand where he was still sitting on the floor.

“I know,” you answered automatically, though he could see the regret on your face as soon as you said it, “I mean, we can hear you guys from in there, talking and everything,” you tried to explain yourself, still shaking his hand. After a long moment silence, he’s still looking at you with a bewildered, but pleasant smile. “I’m Y/N.” You finally manage.

“I know.” And he’s grinning at you, amused as you finally retract your hand to cross your arms over your chest. “You were introduced.” Pointing at Earl, you followed his gaze to the sound desk and the glass window, through which you could see Freddie setting up for another take.

“I’m Roger.” Roger offers from the side, and he seems to be splitting his focus between you and the singer.

“He’s  _Roger_.” John muttered, much more quietly. How he was able to verbally communicate a fond eye-roll, you may never know.

* * *

“What does this one do?” Three weeks into your three month internship, and you’re minding the desk while Earl’s on break, slapping away John’s hands as he tries to get near the buttons.

“I don’t know.” You laughed for the fourth time in a row, pushing his hands gently from the desk.

“This one makes things loud, right?” His fingers edge towards one of the faders and you can see the grin he wears as he watches your expression closely, deciding if you’re going to slap him away from it again. The others have gone to get lunch and he’s keeping you company. He’s been doing that a lot recently, and you wouldn’t say you minded. John’s good company, unexpectedly sharp, and he always seems happy to see you.

“You probably shouldn’t touch that one; it’s for your bass.” You raised your eyebrows at him, lips twitching as you repressed a smile, watching him retract his hand to fold it in his lap.

“So that one’s for the bass, but what about the others?” He asked, nodding to the other faders, and you shrugged.

“Not sure.” Your response only made him smile wider.

“But you know which one the bass one is?” He asked, and you let yourself smile at him, a little more mischievous than was strictly necessary.

“Maybe I just told you that so you wouldn’t touch it.” There’s an unspoken challenge in your words, and his fingers danced along the bottom of the soundboard, just below where the masking tape labels for the faders have all worn away. There’s a moment, he’s hovering over one that looks like it’s labelled ‘ _Mic 2_ ’ and you’re hand is already raised ready to knock him back, when the door bursts open and the others all spill in.

“Alright, out of my seat.” Earl pulls the rolling chair back with you still in it, and you obligingly hop out. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?” He asked, just like he had every single time since he’d first trusted you to look over it while he was gone.

“Yeah, Deaky, did you-” Roger’s wearing a shit-eating grin, but the bass player has hopped out of the seat that usually belongs to you, to make a beeline for the recording studio.

“Oh shut it, Rog,” he snaps, and though you can’t see the blush rising on his cheeks, he knows it’s there. “No.” He adds, and Roger’s exaggerated eye-roll, and the comment he had made, make you blush also, but you’re not entirely sure why, or at least, you won’t admit to yourself why.

* * *

“Okay, take, uh, take six? Take six of  _Killer Queen_ ’s bass.” You stumbled over your words while speaking over the microphone into the recording booth where John waited with headphones on. He gave you a thumbs up, which you missed, searching for the button to play back the other accompaniment into his headphones. After a moment of fumbling, Earl pointed the button out to you, giving you a longsuffering smile as the music began to play back. The other band members quietly discussed the logistics of the song as you watched Earl gently adjust the sound levels every few moments. Sparing a glance to John through the glass, you get a little lost for a moment, watching his intense concentration as he worked his way through the song. He had an intensity about him, the utmost concentration that made you not want to look away. Finishing without a single note missed, he looks up to see you looking back at him, a little starry-eyed, and he grins back.

“ _Wow_.” You breathe, before turning bright red, feeling someone over your shoulder.

“She thinks it’s great.” Freddie pressed down the button, speaking into the microphone by your shoulder. John chuckled fondly, a little flush.

“I- yeah, thank you.” After a beat, he recomposed himself. “And you guys?” His gaze finally moved from your face to look over the others, who were all looking at either you or John smugly. Freddie stepped back from the console, crossing his arms over his chest with a smile as he looked between you two.

“She’s right.” Roger called from the sofa, splayed across it, partially leaning against Brian. After a beat, John gave him a confused look, tapping at the headphones. “Oi, tell ‘im.” Roger urged you, and tentatively you pressed the microphone button, leaning in to it.

“They agree.” And you watch him let out a sigh of relief as he goes to put his bass on it’s stand, making room for Brian to step in and start with his section. When he comes back into the room, John makes a beeline for the sofa, only to find Roger’s laid himself across it horizontally, taking up as much room as he possibly could.

“Sorry, mate.” The drummer grins, clearly not sorry at all. Even Freddie, who usually didn’t go in for this sort of stuff, was using the armrests of the armchair he had draped himself in, giving the bass guitarist a knowing smile, and a sly look to where you were receiving a quiet lesson faders from Earl as Brian began making sure his guitar was in tune.

“You’re doing really good,” John muttered to you from where he leaned against the wall close to the sound desk. You’d just called to start the guitar track and he was keeping his eyes on his bandmate. Startled, you slid the headphones from your ears where you were listening to make sure Brian was hearing the same thing you were.

“What?” Voice quiet, you looked up at John, and he finally looked away from Brian, smiling fondly at you.

“The whole intern thing, you’re doing really well.” And the resulting smile you gave him made you  _glow_ with pride. You’d been so worried that it had seemed like you were stumbling through your tasks, because, well, at times you were, but even a slight affirmation had you  _thrilled_. After a beat, you tried to school face into something more serious as you tried not to let the embarrassing crush on him that had developed over the past few weeks show. He was a musician and you were an intern, and it was just a little bit of a hero-crush, nothing to get too serious about. But he was smiling back at you, and it just made you feel warm; it didn’t have to be a bad thing if you didn’t let it.

* * *

Once the album is done, you still actually manage to see them around, at least for the first few weeks. You’d actually managed to score a job as an assistant from the internship, and they were in often discussing the plans of their tour. Every time they spotted you in the halls, the others would conveniently vanish the moment John asked how you’d been. It hurt a little, to think about how you wouldn’t see them,  _see him_ , for a few months, or perhaps even a year, but you thought perhaps it would be a good thing, letting your little crush die.

“I’ll really miss working with you.” But then he had to go and say that, smiling in that way that made everything seem alright, and he wrapped an arm around you in a hug. He’s not usually a tactile person, from what you’ve gathered, and it takes a moment for you to find your voice.

“I’ll miss,” the words get stuck in your throat a little, “ _working_ with you too.” He gives you a comforting squeezes, and you’re not sure what to do about the way your heart beats a little faster, so you let him leave. He hesitates for a moment, seems like he doesn’t want to go, or has something to say. You see something in his smile, maybe a little sadness, maybe something else you can’t quite place, and you both know it’ll be a while before you see each other again.

* * *

“Is Y/N going to be here?” John’s bopping slightly to the beat in his head as he watches Earl set up the sound equipment on the farm.

“She’ll be here tomorrow.” Earl doesn’t look up from his job while Roger yells at the same time, from the other room.

“ _No distractions!”_ And it’s accompanied by the  _thwap_ of Roger’s slipper hitting the glass of the window to the sound room, but he’s grinning at the bassist from where he’s sitting behind his drums. John refuses to read into that.

It’s been almost six months since you’d seen each other, and you’d jumped at the opportunity to join Earl and the boys a the farm, even if it is in the middle of nowhere, and you’d be sleeping on a sofa for a week. You arrived at the tail end of their stay, once the music was written, all that was left to do was record it.

He’s waiting out the front of the house, perched on the brick wall and eyeing off a large chicken who looked like it was ready to spook him, when Earl pulls up with you in the front seat.The noise of the van is enough to send the chicken scrambling in the other direction, but John waved at you, and there it was, that feeling in your chest that you’ve been trying to bury for six whole months practically leaping to life as you step out to hug him in greeting.

* * *

“Oi, Y/N, settle an argument for us.” When you walk into the kitchen in the morning, Brian is smiling despite the fact that he’s got bacon in his hair, Roger is hunched over eating the rest of the bacon, at least what wasn’t scattered on the floor, from the pan and refusing to share, and John was just smiling blithely into his coffee.

“What do you think of when you hear the phrase, ‘ _I’m in love with my car’_.” John asked, not looking away from where Roger was glowering.

“Is it a nice car?” You asked, easily making your way around the kitchen to fix yourself breakfast, ignoring the way Roger perked up at the question.

“Like as a song, what do you think?” John’s smile as catty as you’ve ever seen it. When you ask what happened to the coffee pot as it lay on it’s side sink, John hands over his mug without hesitating, still waiting on your response.

“Well… is it a metaphor?” You asked, squinting between the three of them. After a beat, Roger slams the frypan on the table and throws his hands in the air.

“ _Yes_ , see she gets it!” And you’re pretty sure you’re on the wrong side of the table as John shakes his head.

“So you  _metaphorically_  are in love with your car?” You asked, rounding the bench to join John and Brian, who were now actively stifling laughter as Roger’s face fell. Resting against the bench by John, you’re close enough that he can lean his head against your shoulder in solidarity, taking back his coffee and having a pointed sip as your words set Roger off on another rant. If you lean into it a little, he doesn’t seem to mind, in fact, you don’t see it, but his smile widens.

* * *

When you hear John banging on the door of the farmhouse after you’ve finished helping pack everything up and Earl’s already locked everyone else out of the sound room for the rest of the night, it’s a shock.

“ _Tell her!”_ You can hear Roger’s shout on the other side of the door as John knocks louder.

“ _You really should just tell her.”_ Unexpectedly, even Freddie seems to agree with the drummer, though John shouts that he’ll catch his death of cold if they don’t let him in soon.

“ _Be an adult, John!”_ Brian tries to placate the bassist from the other side of the door where they’ve all teamed up against him. “ _Just tell her.”_

 _“_ Be an adult?!” John parrots back, just before you get to them.

“Tell me what?” That shut them all up quick, and even before he turns to face you, you can tell he’s bright red. “I mean, I’m the only ‘ _her’_ for what feels like a few hundred kilometres.” Smiling with confusion, you look to the door, and then to John. Someone whispers ‘ _tell her’_.

“I want to see you again.” John lets the words tumble out into the world, hands out and open in front of him in some sort of ‘ _ta-da’_ gesture, before looking over his shoulder. “Can I come back inside now?” 

“ _What? No.”_ You can hear Roger’s baffled expression in his words, and it’s joined by a hum of agreement from Freddie.

“ _He’s right, Deaky, that was a terrible declaration of lov-”_ John’s pulling you away by the elbow before you could hear the rest of Freddie’s statement, though you got the general gist of it.

“You know what, maybe we’re better off out here.” He huffs, unable to look at you as he tugs you towards the wall.

“Slow down, slow down.” Once at the wall, you tug free from his grip and lean against it, watching him fidget. “You like me?” You asked, half smile forming on your lips.

“We’re not high schoolers, Y/N.” He tried dodging the question with a self-deprecating smile. Taking a step forward, you finally got him to look at you. “You know, it was weird, caring about you so much after only three months.” He admitted, studying your features with an intensity you had only seen him get around music, it made you feel like the only person in the world that mattered in that one moment. “It was weird, looking up on stage and not seeing you in the crowd.” He paused for a moment. “And I don’t want that to be our only interaction, just recording music together, I wanna take you take you to all the sights I got to see, but just… just because I want to see them with you.” When his gaze dropped, it felt as if the moment had passed, but you didn’t want to leave it just yet. Gently, you took his hand, and when his eyes met yours, you were smiling, a bit pink in the cheeks, but so obviously full of joy.

“I’d like that,” and after a beat, you moved in to press a kiss to his lips, soft and chaste. “I missed you… so much more than I thought I would.” You chuckled softly, moving back just a little. “I honestly thought you wouldn’t-”

“No, I did.” He looked away, a little embarrassed, and you could see the flush of his cheeks. “The, uh, the boys will attest to that.” He admitted, and that’s when you remembered, feeling the biting chill of the night air finally begin to hit you.

“Do you think they’ve unlocked the door?” You asked, looking over his shoulder. His expression fell as the two of you began to walk hand in hand back to the farmhouse.

“It doesn’t actually lock, they were just all leaning against it.”


	5. a long time coming {Roger Taylor}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: What if you did one where it’s like roger and the reader have a fight and he kinda storms out and goes to the studio cause the guys are there or some shit and the reader shows up later just like we can fix this for the sake of our family or you can leave and that’s how he finds out shes pregnant… sorry if it’s stupid you don’t have to do it
> 
> Anon asked: could i request an imagine where you tell roger you are pregnant and you are scared that he doesnt want kids and he starts crying bc he is so happy? thank you 💞💞
> 
> Anon asked: can you please write more angsty ben hardy!roger taylor x reader? ❤️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2008 words. I sort of mangled all three prompts together, a little angsty in the middle. I hope you enjoy!!

“We’re gonna be late!” Roger’s voice rang out through the apartment, while you were buried in the drawer full of clothes that had slowly become yours over the past year. Pulling out a brightly coloured button up, you pulled it on, leaving the front unbuttoned over the top of the rest of your ensemble. 

“I thought I left this shirt at my place.” You breezed past Roger who was waiting by the bedroom door, jingling his keys impatiently in his hands.

“Then why would you try and look for it?” He asked, rolling his eyes and following you from the apartment. 

“Because I thought it might be in there anyways,” after a beat, you turned to flash him a sunny smile, “and it was!” Halfway down the stairs, on the second landing, you give him a little twirl, showing off the shirt. He looks you over, slight smile tugging at the edge of his lips, and you continue to traipse down the stairs.

“We’re still gonna be late.” He was smiling as he said it, and followed you out to the car. “Was everything alright this morning?” He asked, unlocking the passenger door for you before moving around to his side. You knew he was referring to the fact that you’d woken up at the crack of dawn to be sick. You hadn’t realised you woke him, or that he’d heard, and you tried to brush it off.

“Yeah, just must have had some bad food last night.” Your smile was weak and unconvincing, though he didn’t seem to notice. When you considered it, however, you wonder how he’s  _not_ noticed, it wasn’t the first time you’d woken up unbearably nauseous. Even on the days where you woke up fine, there was a chance that you’d have it wash over you like a wave, and you’d need to find the nearest bathroom. Though you had your suspicions of the cause, and the tests to back them up, you were hesitant to raise the idea with him.

“I’m just saying,” you steered the conversation back to the previous discussion, tone picking up, “it would be easier if I  _knew_ all my stuff was in the one place.” You pulled on your seat-belt as he started up the car. He was very quiet. “Like, if we officially moved in together.” You’d been thinking about it for a while. The words  _terrified_ you, but in reality, it wouldn’t be much of a change, you hadn’t actually stepped foot in your own house for the past two and a half months, and between the two of you, you could afford the rent of a slightly bigger apartment.

“Why?” 

The two of you sat in the silence that his answer had created, you shocked, him looking a bit like he regretted being so blunt, not that he’d apologise.

“Because it’s… it’s what people do, Rog.” There was an anger, a panic rising in you, your fingers laced together, resting over your stomach as you turned to frown at him.

“Isn’t it a bit-” He clenched his jaw, stopping himself mid sentence, and you could see his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“A bit  _fast_?” You asked, the panic turning to disappointment, anger now bubbling away, “I’m sorry that I  _suggested_ living together after over a  _year and a half_ of dating.” He’s got the  _gall_ to be angry, and you turn back to face the road, both simmering in the silence.

“If we move in together, I’m gonna be on tour and you’re eventually gonna leave.” He spoke through his teeth, as if he had to force the words out. It took you a moment to consider what he had said, but your anger began to dissipate.

“Why would I leave you, you dipstick?” Leaning back, you could feel the heat of the car making nausea swirl within you.

“Did you just call me a dipstick?” He asked, turning for just a moment, to squint with confusion at you, before turning back to the road.

“ _Why_ would I leave you?” You repeated for emphasis, leaning forward to crank the air conditioning.

“You’ll get bored of being by yourself, or find something you think is better,” he paused for a minute, “which is ridiculous, but not out of the realm of possibilities.”

“God, you’re so used to kicking girls out of bed, it’s just a step up to kick something good out of your life, isn’t it?” You hissed, vitriol dripping from your words as your own fear and paranoia picking up, your nausea increasing. Roger pulled over,  _furious_.

“What the  _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?” He snapped, and you took in a deep breath to steady yourself before turning. He’s still holding the steering wheel, white-knuckled, whole body tense where he’s still looking through the windshield.

“ _If we move in together, I’m not going to be there_.” You repeated back to him the underlying message you’d heard, and watched as his muscles relaxed as he began to realise what he’d said. “Do you see a future with me, Roger, at all?” You asked, voice quiet as you turned to look ahead, blinking back tears you hadn’t realised had begun to form.

“What kind of question is that?” He asked, and you let out a humourless laugh, unclipping your seatbelt. 

“One with a wrong answer.” You replied, opening up the door and stepping out. “Go to practice; if you’ve got a different answer after, you know where I live.”

All the anger that had been building in your body dissolved the moment he turned the corner, and you burst into tears on the side of the road. Every fear you had about your future since discovering your pregnancy had hit you tenfold, and after a moment, the nausea breaks and you’re throwing up into the bushes, teary, sick, and alone.

All you want is a fucking hug, and to be told it’s alright. You knew getting involved with Roger was a bad idea at the start, knew he wouldn’t want the family life, or something long-term or committed, and here you were, a year and a half later, with the potential of all three, and he’d thrown it back in your face.

Without thinking, you start treading the now unfamiliar route back to your old home, weary already despite the early hour, your whole body aching. You’re half a block away when you realise you don’t have your keys, and a fresh set of tears tracks down your cheeks as you head back to Roger’s.

“ _Y/N, dear?_ ” You pick up the phone at his house out of instinct, and Freddie knows it’s you without even letting you speak. You make a small noise of confirmation, wrapped in a towel, taking advantage of the facilities while you could, with Roger still at practice. You hear what can only be the sound of a tambourine going flying in the background of Freddie’s end of the line. “ _Roger’s in a mood.”_

 _“_ Serves him right.” You mumble, and you can hear Freddie covering the receiver, but not well enough to completely muffle himself.

“ _Well, you’re right, she is there, and she’s in a mood too.”_ Another crash, and someone else yelling distantly, followed by a third crash. “ _Please come and talk with him, he’s already broken three individual drumsticks and a tambourine.”_ He uncovers the receiver to talk to you, and you hear what is distinctly Brian’s voice calling ‘ _two tambourines’_ and another crash. You take in a deep breath.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.” You huffed, and Freddie sighed deeply. “Ask him if he sees a future with the  _band_.” You sneer, catty at the suggestion that simply waltzing in and talking would be enough to fix what Roger had implied. 

“ _Absolutely not_.” Freddie replies automatically. “ _Come and collect him before he kills Brian or Deaky.”_

 _“_ And what about you?” You ask, and you hear Freddie laugh.

“ _Bold of you to assume Roger could kill_ me.” And he hangs up, just like that. After hanging up the phone, you step into the shower to brood, before finally getting dressed and hailing a taxi.

You knew what you needed to do, you needed to get a straight answer out of him before you told him about the baby; you had your family and friends if it came to it, but whether or not you’d need to call on that support network depended on his answer.

Brian, John, and Freddie were all sitting on the one sofa in the reception area of their studio space. They tell you he’s in there, but none of them make a move to lead or follow you in. 

He’s laying in the middle of the space, not wearing shoes, holding a single broken drumstick, one half in each hand.

“What do you want?” He asked, not looking at you, flicking half the broken drumstick to the side of the room.

“To stop you from killing your band members.” You responded, voice level as you approached him.

“They all ran out, I think they’re safe.” He’s speaking in the same, level tone as you. Emotionless. A little heartbreaking. “You should go with them.” 

“Why would I leave?” Voice soft, you finally sit beside him, parroting your own words from earlier. His gaze is still shallow when he turns to look at you, there’s no anger there, no bitterness, there’s nothing.

“Because I’m a liability. Can’t be trusted and all that shit.” He paused, looking back up at the ceiling and flicking the other half of the broken drumstick to join the first. “I break things, Y/N.”

“You haven’t broken me.” As you say it, you finally see some expression return to him, shock, a little awe even. “A year and a half, and,” you let yourself smile a little, reaching out to take his hand, which he lets you, threading your fingers together, “I’m still whole.”  _And then some_ , you think, though you’ll get to that later. “I have friends and family outside of you, Rog, I won’t be alone when you’re on tour, so if that’s your main reason for not wanting to move in together or whatever, I gotta ask again;  _do you see a future with me_?” He’s quiet for a long moment, contemplative, before he frowns a little, finally looking you in the eyes.

“Do you see a future with  _me_?” He asks back, he actually sounds a little nervous, but you smile, and you see the nerves vanish.

“Of course.” You admit, and he sits up at that. Hesitating for a moment, you drop his gaze, pulling your hand from his your rest it on your stomach. It was now or never. “I’m pregnant.” When you’re met with silence, you feel your blood run cold, and look up at him. His expression reads nothing but shock, before bursting into a smile. Relief washes through you as he reaches out and takes your hand.

“Pregnant?” He asks, and you nod, a small smile on your lips. “And it’s-?” 

“Yes, Roger, who’s else would it be?” You snorted, and he pulled you in for a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around you, joy seeming to seep from his pores. All the fear and stress you’d been bottling up for the past few weeks dissolved in that moment, the worry that he’d reject you the moment he found out, that he’d see it as as burden or something that distracts him from the band. 

“I’m- I’m a dad?” You could hear his disbelieving murmur by your ear, and when he pulls away from you, there’s something almost awestruck in his eyes. “I love you.” He tells you, kissing you passionately.

“ _Everything alright in here_?” You hear Brian at the door before you see the rest of the band peering through, and Roger leans back and grins.

“Everything’s great!” He assured them, and you lean forward, letting him wraps his arms around you as you rest your forehead on his shoulder with a giggle. “Everything’s bloody  _fantastic.”_


	6. sunshine smiles {Mary Austin}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Okay idea for Mary you could be friends and be over at her house like trying on clothes and stuff like girls do and then she’s doing ur makeup and she just leans in and… ahhh anyways in pretty gay lol
> 
> Anon asked: If you wrote a Mary x Fem!Reader, I think I would die from love! Your writing is amazing, and I love Boh Rhap’s portrayal of her. It was very comforting to see her and Freddie’s relationship because my dad is also gay, and I’ve just fallen in love with Mary! I love your work and you’re an incredibly talented writer! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2219 words. I know it’s been a long time coming, but here it is.

“You’re Y/N, right?” Saturday night, in the back of a pub, the lights are low, but you can see the shine of her lipstick, and your heart stops in your chest.

“I- yeah.” You recognise her, but you can’t remember from exactly where, and your mouth has gone dry. The band that’s playing on the stage across the room has faded to white noise in your ears.

“I’m Mary,” she’s smiling at you, holding out her hand, and you swallow, resting yourself with a smile on your face as you take it, “I’ve seen you around campus, I just wanted to let you know that I love your shoes!” And you look down at the strappy platforms you’d chosen for the occasion.

“Thank you!” Surprise in your voice, you look up when you hear her giggle, the sound making something in your heart grow warm. She’s haloed by light, and you hear words spilling from your own mouth, though you’re powerless to stop them; “I like your shirt! The ruffles- it’s very ruffly.” And, well, it is, she’s wearing a bell-sleeved crop top with the material gathered across her ribs, but you feel like an idiot. She doesn’t seem to notice, just smiles brighter.

“It is!” Agreeing happily, she offers her hand. “Would you like to come dance with me and my friends?” She asked, and you accept without hesitation. In the middle of the dance floor, you lose yourself in the music, in the sight of her, golden in the light, looking just  _so_ free. The night gets a little blurry around the edges, foggy from the scent of cigarette smoke, and when the set dies down, she’s leading you to the bar, flush with the adrenaline of dancing, asking you if you want anything. You have a drink of water, still trying to figure out if this was a dream, but then you catch the scent of her perfume; she’s standing so close, and you know you could never dream up something like this.

It keeps happening, every other weekend you find yourself in the same bar as her, not on purpose, though it is a nice surprise. Upon seeing you, she pulls you into a hug, grinning brightly.

“Hello dear! Fancy running into you here.” And after that, she brings you over to her small group of friends who you’re quickly growing close to. You dance with them, feeling freer for each weekend that passes, laughing and joking like old friends. Sometimes you catch Mary smiling at you,mostly fond, though there’s something else in there you can’t quite identify, but it makes your heart beat a little faster.

“We should get coffee, we can’t just keep meeting like this.” You’re both sitting at the bar, almost two months after she had first talked to you, you’re sipping your drink through a straw and she’s nursing a beer in her hands. “I like your company, Y/N,” she reaches out, putting a hand on your knee and smiling brightly at you, “I’d like to get to know you outside of the nightlife.” Her hand is so warm, and it takes you a moment to recenter your thoughts; she looks especially pretty tonight, hair pulled back with a bandanna, wearing a fur coat over a dress with a flirty hemline.

Of course you agreed, and the following Wednesday, you find yourself in a cafe down the road from her work. In the sunshine she practically glows, wrapping you in a tight hug when she spots you waiting in a booth by the window. The two of you talk about everything and nothing, about university and about bands you like, about your families and what you wanted to do with your life.

“Can I ask, why’d you come up to me,” you ask during a lull in the conversation, Mary halfway through a sip of her coffee, “you know, when we first sort of met.” Mary lowered her cup gently, not meeting your gaze as she smiled abashedly.

“I really did like your shoes,” she begins, and you let yourself laugh softly, “but you were all hidden away in the dark, you looked lonely.” After a beat, she looked up with that fond smile from the bar, “a girl as pretty as you shouldn’t be lonely on nights like that.” And you think your heart stops in your chest, just for a moment, and you feel your face heating up.

“Thank you, Mary,” you bring your own cup to your lips, a little embarrassed as you look out the window, “a lot of good has come of it.” You concede thoughtfully, and when you look back, she’s smiling at you, holding out her hand for yours.

“A lot of good.” She agrees.

You become fast friends, or at least, that’s what you’re calling it, there’s something between you two, something neither of you can speak about just yet. Her hand in yours is warm as she takes you shopping, and to pubs, and to coffee shops; the two of you laughing loud and bright, sunlight painting the sidewalk like the yellow brick road as you all but skip down it, arm in arm.

She tells you about meeting Freddie, about how he’s so lovely and interesting, and you feel a twinge of jealousy in your gut, but then you’re both in her dorm room, lounging on the bed, her using your stomach as a pillow as you both flip through catalogues. 

Every time she brings up Freddie, or the band he’d started rehearsing with, it makes you want to hold her a little tighter, but that’s ridiculous, you think, she’s not yours to begin with, but it doesn’t stop it from hurting. Despite this, she tells you she’s been talking about you to him, and it would be hard to miss the way she would blush, avoiding your gaze. She tells you he’d love to meet you, and part of you wants to know what about him had her so fascinated.

The two of you go shopping together the night he’s due to debut with  _Smile_ , a band you’d seen once or twice before. She buys a pair of flattering, purple bell-bottoms, which she pairs with a shirt she swears is somewhere at the back of her closet.

“Oh, this would look so lovely on you, dear!” She waltzes up to you with a loose, tan, button up shirt. In the dressing room, she averts her gaze politely when you strip off your shirt, which makes you flush.

“You don’t have to be so modest, Mary.” You find yourself saying, though you’re already pulling on the shirt she’d suggested. You hear her giggle at your words as you look in the mirror, and after a moment she circles around you, nimble fingers rolling up the long sleeves past your elbows as you buttoned the shirt up. After a moment, she frowns at where you’ve got it done up all the way, and she unbuttons the top three buttons, insisting you tuck the shirt into your jeans. She’s right, the shirt makes you look sophisticated, and a little rugged, and she’s beaming at you, calling you gorgeous, something which your heart does not let go unnoticed.

Once you’ve bough the shirts, you head back to her dorm room, a common occurrence at this point, and you’ve got a few hours to kill before you need to get ready. Mary dumps her bags at the end of her bed and flops down on it, making a hum of comfort.

“I think it’s going to be a big night,” she says, stifling a yawn, already tired from the day’s adventures. 

“We should get some rest before we need to get ready.” You gently place your bags with hers, already stretching out beside her, even as she’s beckoning you over.

“Alright, just a little nap, then we get ready.” And the two of you kick off your shoes before snuggling under the covers of her bed, setting her bedside alarm for 6. She’s your best friend, your maybe something more, and it’s something you’ve done before, just wrapping yourself up in her, warm and soft and gentle in the afternoon air.

The alarm goes off and you wake with a start, sitting bolt upright, which only serves to make her laugh beside you. The sunset streams in through her blinds, painting the room golden, and she’s smiling at you, soft and a little messy against her pillow, one of her hands holding yours where you’d found each other in your sleep. Letting yourself laugh at your earlier fright, you move to get out of bed, pulling her to her feet with you.

She lets you borrow a towel and the two of you take turns showering in the shared bathroom, before getting ready together. You have to marvel at her outfit, the pants fitting so nicely, really playing well off the rich, chocolate coloured jacket she chose for the occasion. Putting on the shirt you had bought earlier that day, you take a moment to tuck it in, keeping the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. Admiring yourself in her dresser mirror, your gaze shifts to where she’s sat in front of it, applying mascara. Catching your gaze in the reflection, she smiles brightly.

“Would you like to borrow some?” She asked, and you hesitated, suddenly a little embarrassed. Standing, she moves close to you, practically toe to toe, offering the mascara brush to your face. “Hold still.” She says softly, and your face heats up at the proximity. She applies the makeup, before moving back to her dresser and coming back with eyeliner. “I should have done this first.” She admits, and you can count the freckles on her nose from here.

“You look beautiful, Mary.” Your voice is so soft when you speak, your eyes closed as she applies the makeup, and she stops, but you keep diligently still.

“Your eyes are closed.” There’s a bit of amusement in her words, but also a warm fondness.

“You’re  _always_  beautiful, Mary.” Tone light, but serious. 

You’re met with silence, when you open your eyes, worried you’d said the wrong thing, she’s there, still holding the eyeliner aloft, expression one almost akin to awe. You look at her like she hangs stars in the sky, finally unable to help yourself any longer.

Quietly, deliberately, she turns and puts the makeup down, before turning back to you, reaching to cup your face in her hands as she kisses you gently. She’s so soft, the way she kisses, the way she feels when you wrap your arms around her, pulling her close.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” She murmurs, letting herself smile as she presses her forehead to yours. 

“So have I.” When you admit it, you finally open your eyes, seeing her affectionate smile so close, and all for you. At your words, she grins, and kisses you again, wrapping her arms around your neck, holding you close.

When you finally break apart, you’re both flushed, breathing hard, and beaming at one another.

“Eyeliner.” It’s as if she’s reminding herself, and she quickly spins to pick it up, finishing up what she had started. “Lipstick?” She asks, holding up the tube she’d picked out for herself for the night. 

“As long as we’re wearing the same shade I don’t think anyone will notice.” You grin, which she returns. The two of you finish getting ready, alternating with actual prep, and stealing kisses from one another, walking arm in arm down the chilly streets of London, following the gaggle of other uni students as they headed to the bar.

Freddie was a captivating lead, and an incredible singer, despite his initial fumble, and you spent the night dancing with Mary, enjoying the music, her company, and the night. After the gig you head around to where the band was packing their things away into a van, chatting quietly to one another.

“Mary, darling!” Freddie cries, upon seeing the two of you, arm in arm in the cold. He crosses over, and you step back to let them hug in greeting, but as soon as they part, Mary’s hand is reaching for yours, linking your fingers together. Freddie looks down at your joined hands, and his smile turns knowing. “And you must be the Y/N I’ve heard so much about.” And then he’s holding out his hand for a firm handshake, which you manage with your free hand, not letting go of Mary.

“And you’re Freddie; it’s so good to finally meet you.” You respond with warm honesty, something easing in your chest now that you’ve finally met him, Mary by your side. “Any friend of Mary’s is a friend of mine.” You assured, to which he smiled brightly at you. It looks like he’s about to say something, but he looked between you, breaking out into a laugh.

“I was going to say the same to you, but I don’t think it’s the same situation.” He chuckled, and you felt heat flare up in your cheeks. Looking to Mary, you see her smiling back, affectionate and sunny.

“I think we might be a bit past friends.” She chuckles softly, giving your hand a squeeze.


	7. lead up {Ben Hardy}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Could you write a Ben Hardy imagine about anything cause I’m dying for a bit of Ben 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1367 words. An idea I had at work. Was it requested? Not technically. Was it fun? Yes. Is it fluffy? God I hope so.

You’re still in your sweatpants, curled up in bed and reading something on your phone, when Ben comes into the hotel bedroom, informing you the hair and makeup would arrive within the hour. When you tell him that they shouldn’t bother, without looking up from where you’re engrossed in your phone, he frowned at you.

“You went and saw  _Venom_  like eight times, and yet you won’t come see this?” He asked, and you sighed, resting your phone in your lap.

“I don’t  _know_ anyone in  _Venom_.” You said, curling up tighter. “And it’s different…” Voice getting smaller, you look up at him, a soft expression on your face, a nervousness you’d been trying not to feel for weeks. “It’s a  _premiere_ , Ben, there’s so many people.” You mused, and Ben sat on the edge of the bed, careful to avoid where your dress was carefully laid out.

“It’s alright, it’s just like any other movie-” He began but you sat up straight, frowning, anxiety twisting your stomach into knots.

“I’m just… I’m  _me_ , and you’re one of the  _stars_ of the movie, and there’s a red carpet and, if I’m being honest, the idea of watching you on the big screen is nerve wracking.” You admitted, to which he made a confused face.

“I  _know_ you saw  _Apocalypse_ -”

“That was before we met, Ben. It doesn’t count. Back then I could just watch your beautiful face and not know what it was like to-” your voice catches in your throat as your anxiety rises, and you feel yourself flush before the words come out. Ben, however, just raises his eyebrows at you, intrigued.

“Know what?” He asked, voice low and amused as he moved to sit up beside you on the bed. You shuffled over, making room, waiting for him to get settled before leaning against him.

“Nothing dirty, just…” Reaching over you take his hand where he’s got it rested on your thigh. Just being close to him was calming you down somewhat, and you took in a deep breath, before you turned and pressed your face to his shoulder. “It’s sappy, okay?” You huffed, and you can hear him laugh softly, can feel it gently shaking his shoulders.

“It’ll be fine, okay? I’ll be right beside you.” He promised, before scooting from the bed. He doesn’t let go of your hand, even as he stands up, and you watch him, quiet and contemplative. He gives you a gentle tug, hand still out where it holds yours, as if offering. “Shower? We’ve still got half an hour until they arrive.” He’s grinning at you, and your anxiety eases as you get up.

“She sits so well.” The makeup artists that had been hired for you for the even grinned from you to Ben, as you sat patiently getting your makeup done, wearing only a robe after your shower. Ben was already half dressed sitting a few feet away from you as someone fussed over his hair. “‘s like she’s been doing this for years.” The makeup artist turns back to you, powdering just beneath your eyes.

“She puts up with me, she can put up with anything.” You can hear the grin in Ben’s words, even though you can’t turn to see it, and you feel yourself flush.

“You make it sound like dating you is a chore.” You tried not to change your expression too much as work began on your eyes. You hear both the makeup artist and Ben laugh. “It’s not.” You clarify, which only causes Ben to laugh harder.

“I know you wouldn’t stay if it were.” There’s such genuine affection in his words that it makes your heart grow warm, and you reach out blindly.

“Ben.  _Ben.”_ You mutter, hand wiggling in the empty air by his chair. The hair stylist laughs softly, though it’s not unkind, not that you care either way.

“What?” You hear Ben ask, and you let yourself smile, a little abashed.

“That was sweet, give me your hand.” You can feel yourself flush as you say it out loud, but your hand remains hovering in the air, wiggling your fingers for a moment before letting them still, hand open in a simple offer.

“ _What?”_ He laughs a little.

“Ben, gimme your hand, my eyes are closed.” You explained, and there was silence. After a beat, you feel the makeup artist move back from working on your face, and when you open your eyes, she’s got a hand on either of the seat’s armrests and pulls the chair close to Ben’s. When she looks back at you, you flush with slight embarrassment, but then you feel Ben’s fingers linking with your own. He’s giving you a fondly amused smile when you look over at him, and you give his hand a gentle squeeze before you both drop contact and let the team finish their work.

“Hey, can you zip me up?” When Ben emerges from the bathroom to help you, he’s in his full suit, and your mouth goes dry for a moment. Moving on instinct, you suck in your stomach as much as you can while he zips up the back of your dress, and when you turn to face him, he catches you by the elbows, leaning back to look over your red carpet look.

“You look…” it actually takes him a moment to drag his gaze from your body to your eyes, and there’s something almost hungry in the look he gives you, “ _spectacular.”_

 _“_ You don’t look so bad yourself.” You find your voice with a grin, stepping forward and back into his space, wrapping your arms around him. The stylists had left almost a full half an hour ago, and there wasn’t much time before you had to head down to the car.

“I don’t wanna smudge your lipstick.” His eyes sparkle, looking very much like he’d  _love_ to smudge your lipstick, but he’s gentle when he moves in, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. His hands move to cup your face, drawing back from you, your cheeks just a little flushed, the stain of your lipstick on his lips.

“You look good like that.” You muse, bringing your thumb up to wipe the colour from his lips, and he grins. “But what would the  _fans_ think.” Though your joking tone was light, the mood dampened with the real anxiety that bubbled up in you.

“They’re going to love you.” He assured, hands gentle as he pulled you in to kiss you on the cheek. “And everyone who doesn’t can shove it.” That gets you to grin, and you want to kiss him in return, but you remember how much time and effort went in to your look, and you refrain. 

An assistant comes to call on you both, and Ben takes your hand, leading you through the hall of the hotel, keeping you close. In the elevator, he grins at you.

“One more, for luck?” He asks, and you flush, he’s leaning over, as if expecting you to kiss his cheek, but you shift to kiss him on the lips, smiling wide as the two of you break apart.

“A lipstick print on your cheek?” You asked, and Ben shrugged, still grinning to himself, leaving the faint colour on his lips.

“Would be a very Roger thing to do, wouldn’t it?” He mused, and you snorted out a laugh, pulling the tube of lipstick from your purse and reapplying it.

“If you start throwing TVs out windows, we’re going to have a problem.” You told him, just as the doors opened to the below ground parking, where the others were waiting in the limo. 

“You two match.” Joe smirked between the two of you as you climbed into the back seat, the door shutting behind you. He’s not talking about your outfits. You flush, pleased and unashamed, and once you’re buckled in, Ben slings an arm around you, grinning at his costar, the smile conveying so much without a single word passing from his lips.

Gwilym sighs, Joe actually laughs, Rami’s not really paying attention, and you? You just try to keep smiling as you all head to the premiere. Ben holds you a little tighter, and it gets much easier to smile.


	8. don't @ me {Joe Mazzello}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Hi there! You write the best imagines and your my favorite queen blog 💛 if you’re not too busy I’d like to request something? Idk something with Joe and like your dating and the whole cardboard ben thing is playing out and the reader is playing along in the comments and stuff idk I just really need some dorky Joe fluff please and thank you for your time! 😊
> 
> Anon asked: please write a joe mazzello imagine one day soon !!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1781 words. Anon, today is that day. Joe is v cute and I love him but also this video gives me mad anxiety for reason’s I’m not 100% sure about, but nyways i watched it like 12 times. I know very little about press tours and who goes on them, I also know very little about Joe, but I tried! Suspend your disbelief.

“Why do you have a cuttout of Ben?” It’s breakfast, and far too early to be met with the frozen stare of a cardboard version of Ben Hardy staring at you across the kitchen table. He’s there anyways, propped up in an unoccupied seat, silently judging you as you drink your tea.

“Because he can’t make it on the press tour.” Joe tells you, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, moving about the kitchen, fixing himself breakfast.

“He’s watching me.” The cardboard Ben’s stare is unbroken and unnerving. You stand abruptly, moving it from it’s place at the table, so it was looking at the wall, and you hear Joe laugh behind you. “He’s  _creepy,”_ you insist, but he doesn’t disagree with you.

“Ben’ll be heartbroken.” Joe’s taken your seat, and so you sit in the one you’d just freed up, pulling your drink across the table, taking a long sip before giving Joe a long suffering smile.

“Honey, I don’t think real-Ben is going to care about what I think of his cardboard double.” You told him, and Joe raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

“Oh, yeah no, he won’t care, he might be offended you called him creepy,” he talked over your objections with a smile, “but you’ve hurt poor Ben Cardy’s feelings, babe.” Gesturing to the cardboard behind you, trying not to grin if the edges of his lips twitching gave anything away.

“ _Ben Cardy_?” You repeated, disbelieving. He just raised his eyebrows at the thing behind you. You turned around, suspicious, and still a little on edge from the new arrival. It had not moved. Thank God. Joe just laughs.

* * *

Cardboard Ben becomes a hit on social media, a fact that was unsurprising to you; something that obviously memetic with all the boys’ support behind it was bound to take off. Now that you were used to it ( _him?_ ) you thought it was pretty damn funny.

“Oh, what about one of us at the piano.” Rami’s eyes had lit up at the sight of the  _Bohemian Rhapsody_ piano, and Joe, who had been handed the crown from the the publicist to take some promotional shots of the cast at this screening, propped up Cardboard Ben behind the piano.

Rolling your eyes at the shenanigans, you obligingly wait for Joe  to put the crown on and situate himself on Rami’s lap before taking the photo. Passing the phone back, you take the crown from him, wearing it while you collected Cardboard Ben.

“You look good like that.” You’re trying to fold the cutout so you could carry it under your arm when you hear Joe’s voice. Looking up, he’s smiling at you, phone in his hands like he’s halfway through writing something on it. At your confused look, his smile widens just a little more and he looks to the crown sitting on your head. It had been heavy before, on your head out of ease rather than comfort, but under his admiring gaze it feels as light as air.

* * *

“ _Strap in Ben, mate.” The video, hand-held and shot on Gwilym’s phone, shows Joe leaning across the back set of a nice-looking car, trying to buckle in Cadrboard Ben, who was had a checkered scarf wrapped around his neck._

_“Don’t make it too tight!” Your voice can be heard from off camera, clearly trying not to laugh, and in the brief moment Joe looks to you, he’s grinning brightly, assuring you he wouldn’t, before turning back and finally clipping in the belt buckle.  
_

You sit beside Joe in the back seat once the video’s been posted, with him in the middle, Cardboard Ben still strapped in on his other side. All of you in the car, that is all of you who weren’t driving or cardboard, were on Instagram, replying to the comments, having a laugh as you rewatched the video a few times.

_@.username1: i wish someone would love me like they love that cut out_

_@.username2: even @.YourInstagramHandle worries about him 😍😍_

_@.YourInstagramHandle: @.username2 i’m just worried about what happens if he’s not buckled in 😬😬_

_@.benhardy1: @.YourInstagramHandle im glad you and @.joe_mazzello are keeping me safe_

_@.joe_mazzello: @.benhardy1 always, buddy!_

_@.YourInstagramHandle 😬😬_

Gwylim, from the front seat, can hear you laughing, and when he turns back, you’re leaning against Joe and the two of your are looking at your phones, wearing identical mischievous grins. When he posts a photo of the two of you beside a still buckled in cut out, to said cut-out’s instagram story, he captions it ‘ _I feel like I’m 3rd wheeling here…. @.YourInstagramHandle @.joe_mazzello’._

* * *

Everyone  _loves_ the joke, and since no-one’s really sure where the Real Ben is, you can all keep getting away with it. With everyone playing along, it becomes a quickly growing phenomena, which comes to an interesting pinnacle on Thursday, November 15th.

“So I’ve had an idea.” Joe looked at you where you were scrolling through Instagram on your phone with one hand, sipping a drink in the other. You hadn’t kept Cardboard Ben in your hotel room since the start of the tour, which you were thankful for, but it seemed to be your turn. It still unnerved you, but it was currently facing the wall, and not staring unblinkingly at you, which you were thankful for.

Humming in both question, and recognition of the statement, you look to see him suppressing a smile. He starts explaining his idea for a video, of waking up next to the cardboard cut out, and you know that your expression is one of dawning horror, though that only seems to inspire him further.

“That sounds ridiculous.” You admit once he’s finished, and he actually laughs.

“I know, but it’s- it’s funny, come on.” And his earnest enjoyment from the concept has you cracking, a smile spreading over your face, unable to help the laughter that escaped you.

“That you  _fucked_ Cardboard Ben?” You asked, putting your tea down and raising your eyebrows at him.

“Yes!” He insisted, and despite your eye roll, you were grinning, already moving to collect the cut out.

“Where do you want him?” You asked, and Joe’s smile brightened, before he wiggled his eyebrows. “This is already weird enough; just tell me where you want him.” You moved to the bed, pulling back the covers to put the cardboard figure in the bed.

“Perfect, perfect!” Joe seemed ecstatic as you pulled the covers back up, leaving Cardboard Ben in bed.

“Do you want me to tuck you in, too?” You asked, raising a single eyebrow, voice faux sweet as you picked up your tea and stepped away from the bed. Giving you a sunny smile, he ignored the sarcasm and informed you that he’d probably be alright, pulling out his phone.

Leaning against the wall where you had just taken Cardboard Ben from, you watch in amusement as he begins to film, pretending to wake up, before turning both himself and the camera so that he caught sight of the cardboard. Instead, he caught sight of your fond but amused expression, and he was lost for a moment.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He admonished, though he was smiling a little softer than before. 

“Like what?” You asked, half laughing, and Joe just shook his head, a little disbelieving, before turning back over and starting the video again. When he turns back, you’ve got your own phone out, and are taking a photo of the situation, to which he laughs.

‘ _@.benhardy1 aka Mr Steal Yo Man’_ you captioned the photo on your instagram story. With you focused on your own phone, Joe managed to film most of his video before you heard him talk about how Cardboard Ben was already dressed, and you  _lost it,_ barking out a laugh and interrupting his filming.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” You apologised profusely through giggles, though Joe too broke into a grin, stopping the recording. “I’ll go into the next room.” Stepping through to the main room, you waited by the doorframe as you listened to your boyfriend pretend to wake up next to a cardboard cut out of one of his co-stars. As soon as he muttered about knowing that he’d call, there’s a long paused, and then he snorts out a laugh, and you’re pretty sure it’s safe to go back in.

He’s grinning, sitting against the headboard and you can hear his rough, sleepy voice coming through the speakers of his phone. Cardboard Ben is still where you left him, looking up at the roof.

“Is it good?” You asked, and he hummed thoughtfully, still amused at his own antics.

“It’s not terrible,” he admitted, “ _I_ think it’s funny.” And he passed the phone over to let you watch it, and you slid yourself into the bed beside Cardboard Ben. It was funny, you’d give him that, and you passed the phone back to let him finish adding tags and posting the video. As the video went live, a thought occurred to you, something that amused you to no end.

“Hey, come here, I wanna get a photo of the three of us.” You grinned, sliding down under the covers until they came up to your shoulders, then holding up your phone so you could catch yourself, Joe, and the cut out in the photo.

The shot was staged so that Joe and the cut out looked into the camera, Joe looking a little concerned, while you looked off to the side, expression clearly uncomfortable. You added the photo to your instagram story with a simple ‘😮’ as the caption, tagging both Joe and Ben in it.

“It still creeps me out.” You admitted, pulling the cardboard cut out from the bed and putting it face-down on the floor, moving to rest against Joe, still sitting in bed. He wrapped an arm around you.

“Yeah, but you’re a good sport about it.” He pressed a kiss to the edge of your forehead, scrolling through the comments that were flooding in already on his video.

“Of course, I love you, Joe, I’ll always play along.” You tucked yourself up closer to him, going through your own feed with mild interest. He gives you a soft squeeze, and when you look at him, he’s smiling fondly down at you, a look so full of love and adoration that it makes your heart melt a little. “It’s- it’s just a cut out, I mean.” You flush under his gaze, ducking your head to avoid the softness of his smile and how it made a warmth bloom in your chest.

“No, I know.” He laughed gently, going back to his phone. “I just love you too.”


	9. always been close {Roger Taylor}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: okay i LLOOOOVe your Ben hardy/roger taylor fics and i was wondering if you could write more of them? I don’t have a particular request (anything you write will probably be fantastic) but i do really like a smug or cheeky roger taylor…. so do what you want with that…
> 
> Anon asked: Could I request a Roger Taylor x reader fanfic where they’ve been good friends for years,the other members know the reader too but one day the hook up and the other members notice that something happened between them and at the end they somehow end up together.I want a lot of shocking reactions from the boys as I live for them.You don’t need to write it if you don’t like the idea.But thank you ! 💗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2870 words. Me, cramming as many prompts into a singular trenchcoat and shoving it out into the world: are you not entertained?! also…. like, light to medium smut….. i might start writing all out smut. Not exactly what was asked for, but it was a fun time. Jealousy warning as well.

“So how do you know Rog?” Deacon smiles at you when you offer to help the boys pack up after their first show, it’s a kind smile, a smile you can trust. Brian and Roger like him well enough, and you at least trust Brian’s judgement enough to be friendly to their new bassist.

“I don’t.” You tell him, straight-faced as you haul the bass drum into the back of van. Deacon’s expression turns confused as Roger passes you another piece of equipment. Looking the newest band member directly in the eyes, you double down on the bit. “I’ve never met this man before in my life.” 

“I’m getting a beer, you want your usual?” Roger calls to you, and you turn back, making a face at him. “I’m done packing up, Brian’s the only one left.” He responded to your nonverbal complaint by making a flippant gesture to the guitarist, who was clicking the last of the latches shut on his guitar case. “Drink?” He asked you again, and instead of answering you just beamed at him.Poor Deacon just looked confused.

“Pay them no mind, Deaky.” Brian said, sliding his guitar case in the back beside the bass. “It’s a blessing they’re even coherent half the time.” Brian, exasperated, turned to you. “How’d you meet Rog?” He asked, voice flat as if it were a question he’d asked a hundred times before, and you looked back at him.

“He killed me in a past life and I’m biding my time for revenge.” You responded, expressionless, to which he shook his head.

“That’s a new one.” He would give you that much, before turning to John. “Y/N and Rog grew up together.” He said by way of explanation, speaking over the top of Roger shouting from the door that they’d run out of your favourite drink, but that you could share his beer if it came to it.

“You drink piss-water and I can  _see_ mine in your hand.” You accused, while Roger leaned down, his lips at the rim of the glass that held your drink.

“These are both for me.” Somehow, he thought the best course of action was to take a drink from the one obviously for you, slurping the top of it obnoxiously. 

“Children, children, get in the car.” Freddie called over the top of you both, and you took the opportunity to snatch your drink from Roger’s hand, spilling it both on him and yourself, though you still thought a crow of triumph was warranted.

* * *

“So how do you know Roger?” The girl he’s brought along to the band’s first album recording is pretty enough, dark hair, cute shorts. She smiles at you and it’s all teeth, something a little bit nasty and insinuating in her tone. It takes a moment for you to suppress your eyeroll, you’d dealt with this before any girl who was into Roger seemed to see you as competition, and as flattering as it was when the two of you started hitting the town together, it was wearing thin now.

“I’m his personal bodyguard.” You tell her, and the girl purses her lips, but doesn’t say anything else. Mary hides her laughter behind her hand, and drapes her other arm against the back of the sofa, an open invitation for you to lean against her and watch as the boys set up in the other room.

They record for  _hours_ , trying everything and anything, experimenting with everything they had, making music, dancing, living  _electrically_ for the time they had in there. The woman he’d brought takes most opportunities to throw herself on him, dance with him, keeping it relatively tame for present company, but you knew the look in his eyes, and in hers. 

The last take of the night is when her thinly-veiled jealousy shtick is wearing thin on you, and you leap up after his final recording session, jostling the sleeping Mary where she was lying on your lap, running to him. Wrapping your arms around him, you let him spin you around in elation.

“That was good! That was so good, wasn’t it, Y/N?” And he’s  _glowing_  with excitement, eyes only for you. You answer in kind, gushing about the music, how excited you were for it. There’s triumph running through your veins when the other girl has to clear her throat to get his attention. He went home with her, but you still feel victorious.

* * *

It’s a feeling you’d always experienced, since you were young; at first it was only the two of you, both of you going to the same high school a district away, not knowing anyone. But Roger had a magnetism to him, and an aggression that brought in a certain type of person. You weren’t lonely, no more than any other high schooler, but for all yours and his friends, you both made damn sure to stay best friends.

It continued into university; he’d brought you in to meet the band at the first gig, and they took to you immediately, so you kept coming, would help them pack up, make yourself indispensable, earn your place as Roger’s best friend in this world he’d cultivated around himself.

And now here you were, the final gig before he and the others officially drop out to become  _serious_ musicians… Or, there you  _were_ , because after half an hour of drinking and throwing peanuts at Roger and the girl he was with -  _who had said the band was shit, though the drummer was cute, while in the bathroom_ \- Roger had dragged her out to the car he had managed to scrape together enough cash for.

“Roger?” Now you’re just tired, lying in his bed, wearing his shirt. “Why’d you bring me back here? I was a dick to you, to-” you can’t remember the name of the girl he was with, but she was just trying to have a good time, you know you shouldn’t have-

“Stop talking.” He yawned as he walked into the room, wearing his pyjamas shorts and drinking from a half-filled bottle of water. When he sense you’re about to say something else, he puts up a hand, eyebrows raised at your possible defiance, and you close your mouth, sulking.

Climbing into bed with you, the two of you shift automatically, your head resting on his chest as he wrapped an arm around you, looking up at the ceiling. The two of you hadn’t shared a bed like this in years.

“Sorry.” You find yourself murmuring as he strokes your back, well, as much as he can with half of it being used as part of your pillow.

“Why’ve you gotta be like this?” He sighed, but you just tucked up closer to him.

“I thought we weren’t talking about it.” Voice low, you feel a quiet, self-deprecating laughter rumble through his chest, and his hand comes to rest at your hip, fingertips brushing against your thigh where his shirt ends. You’re waiting, holding your breath to see what he would do. You know he’s looking at, can feel his gaze on your face, but he doesn’t stop, fingers moving slowly just beneath the fabric of the shirt to your underwear. His thumb slides beneath the elastic, and finally you look up at him. He’s so serious,  _God_ , you could cut the tension with a knife, and it snaps as he does, pulling the elastic of your panties up in one quick flick and letting it snap against your side. 

“Ow! That hurt, you asshole!” You laugh, shifting to prop yourself up on your elbow, but he’s already pulling you down for a kiss, grinning against you lips. It feels like it should. You fit together easily, his hand moving to keep your hips steady as you shift automatically to straddle him. “You’re such a dick sometimes.” You pull back, still grinning, lips still only inches from his. He raises his eyebrows pointedly at you, and you’re pretty sure there’s nothing hotter than Roger’s smug fucking face, as he then proceeds to graze his nails up your thighs, kissing you to swallow the whimper that escaped you.

It feels like it’s been a long time coming. It’s fun, but its not unfamiliar; you’ve known each other for so long it’s like it’s a natural progression. You can read each other like a favourite book, somehow instinctual and a little awkward, which is, well, it’s perfectly  _you two_. 

“You know what? I don’t think I’m actually sorry for cockblocking you tonight.” You mused, a little out of breath, shooting for serious. Though it takes Roger a moment to process what you said, he grins up at you, gently poking a spot on your inner thigh where he knows a hickey will bloom.

“Maybe should thank you.” He snorts, which only goes to set you off laughing again. The sound of it, warm, syrupy and at ease, it makes him grin, proud of being able to illicit such a genuine laugh from you in this situation, and soon you’re pulling him up to kiss him again, still thrumming with laughter.

* * *

No-one notices at first. Well, to be fair, you and Roger are weirdly touchy, so if he’s pinching your ass more than usual, no-one seems to care enough to comment on it. Well,  _you_ notice, but you couldn’t care less. Things between you have shifted; not gotten weird or bad, just shifted sideways. Roger’s still sleeping with any practically any girl that throws herself at him, and you’re free to hook up with anyone and everyone you like, but sometimes… you just find yourself together at the end of the night.

One night, the girl he’s talking to at the bar gives you a catty look when he’s not looking. She saw the two of you come in together, never mind the cute guy who had been buying you drinks for the past hour. Excusing the poor guy who you know is now probably going home alone tonight, you make your way to the bathroom, leaning against the wall beside it, watching Roger and waiting until you catch his eye.

He frowns slightly at you, but you just nod towards the bathroom and raise your eyebrows in silent question. It’s almost comical how fast he leaves the girl at the bar. When she follows his trajectory with her eyes, she sees you waiting; you wink at her, the grin on your face stretching into something smug as Roger wraps his fingers around your wrist, pulling you into the bathroom.  _Mine_. 

It’s not like you do that  _every time_ you go out together, just if you get bad vibes off whoever he’s with, or if she makes a face at you like you’re some sort of competition… which you are, but you don’t want to  _seem_ like it.

The thing is, Roger does it too, he’s just a tad more possessive. Sometimes he’s subtle, mentioning to you and whoever you’re with that you had to go; band rehearsals early the next morning, even though it was usually a lie. Your favourite, however, was the night you both went to a dingy little pub with a jukebox rather than a band, and the guy who had been plying you with alcohol had come back from the bathroom with a grin. You were tipsy, feeling on top of the world with this stranger’s hand on your thigh, when out of nowhere, Roger’s arms wrap around you, warm and familiar.

“You right there, mate?” The man at the bar had snapped.

“ _He called you a ditzy bitch in the bathroom.”_ Roger had murmured against your ear, low enough so only you could hear, and in your liberated state, you were ready to yell at the man, though the man had enough yelling of his own to do.

“Alright, you wanna go, mate?” He growls, standing, and your smile turns poisonous as a new thought occurs to you.

“Yeah, Rog, do you wanna go?” The soft, amused nuance in your voice conveyed such a different message that it was laughable, you turn your head to rest your forehead against his where he’s perched his chin on your shoulder. The man at the bar deflates a little as you lose interest in him, and Roger’s smile widens. 

“Sounds like a plan.”  _She mine._ It’s there in his eyes, the way he keeps an arm around you as you leave the bar, you feel it thrumming through him as pulls off your shirt in the back of his car.

* * *

Sometimes you head to bars with the boys and Mary, sometimes they still play pub gigs, and yet they still don’t seem to realise. Or, most of them don’t seem to realise.

“You and Roger are hanging out a lot.” Mary smiles at you, a glint of mischief in her eyes as you watch the boys complain about trying to fit their gear in Brian’s stationwagon. 

“Of course, he’s my best mate.” Shrugging noncommittally, you hear Mary hum, unconvinced. Shooting her a suspicious look, she just shrugs in return, mimicking your own dismissive gesture. 

“You want me to give you a lift home?” As if to prove Mary right, Roger calls out to you, pulling out his keys. You can feel Mary’s pointed look, and your expression falters, shaking your head with a smile, though your heart’s not in it.

“No, I-” you start, but then the rest of the band is looking at you, “there’s someone at the bar.” Gesturing over your shoulder awkwardly, you give them all a strained smile and head back inside. Catching Roger’s expression, he actually… looks hurt, and a little jealous, though he covers it up quickly.

* * *

“Can I ask you something?” The pub’s doors closed behind you, and you’re fully intending to stumble into a taxi when a voice is heard behind you. Whipping around and almost losing your balance, you spot Roger, leaning against the edge of the building.

“Do  _not_ sneak up on me like that Rog.” You admonished him, reaching an arm out to him for support, and he’s there automatically, wrapping his arm around you. 

“What are we doing?” It’s actually snowing outside, and you’re tempted to say  _freezing my ass off_ , but he seems serious.

“Fuckin’ around.” You mumble, turning to wrap both your arms around him. “You’re my best friend.” Voice dreamy, you feel it when his arms tighten around you.

“ _Best friend_.” He repeats, quietly, and you hum thoughtfully for a moment.

“ _Mine_.” The word is firm as you speak it, and he leans back, eyebrows furrowed.

“What does that mean, Y/N?” He asked, and with the distance between you, he watches as snowflakes drifted about, settling on your closed eyelashes.

“Means I hate that you fuck other girls, Rog, but you’re my  _best friend_  and an adult so you can do what you want.” It takes you a moment to get the full sentence out around your vaguely uncooperative tongue, but when you open your eyes, he’s smirking at you.

“There was no guy at the bar.” It was a statement rather than a question, but you snorted with laughter anyways.

“’course not, you knob. Mary was getting suspicious though.” You told him, and he had to muffle a laugh at that. After a beat, you raise your eyebrows at him. “And yet,  _Roger_ , you walked all the way back here and waited until I was kicked out to spend time with me.” 

“Yeah, well, gotta look after what’s mine.” 

* * *

“Those look fresh.” Mary poked at the hickey on your throat, commenting loud enough for the boys to hear as the two of you draped yourselves across the sofa in the rehearsal room. Giving her a shit-eating grin, you can see Roger’s own wicked smile where he’s tweaking his drum kit. 

“That’s because they  _are_.” Swatting her away, you pulled a magazine from your bag, flipping it open.

“So the boy at the bar-?” Mary giggled, shifting to read over your shoulder, though you weren’t paying attention to the words.

“Oh no, this is all Roger’s work.” Shooting for nonchalant, you can hear the others stop their tuning as Roger continued to set up. Looking up, you can see Mary grinning out of the corner of your eye, Brian looking like he was quickly forming a headache, John frowning into space, deep in thought, and Freddie looking between the two of you.

“How long’s this been going on?” He asked, seemingly still unsure about the nature of the relationship.

“A while.” Roger supplies, which John echoes as a question.

“Year, maybe?” You look to Roger, for confirmation, and he shrugs, making a noise of vague confirmation. Brian finally unfreezes where he’s got his base in one hand, and other pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What the  _fuck_ , guys?”


	10. soup for the soul and also for eating {Roger Taylor}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @cosmicsskies asked: Ya bitch really wants a Roger Taylor fic where reader is sick and Roger takes care of her. My bed ridden self literally needs this. Please❤️❤️❤️
> 
> Anon asked: roger taylor imagine where it’s all fluffy taylor would b something i’d die for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1105 words. Fluffy as fuck sick!fic I literally wrote at work in like 2 hours. I know it’s late I’m sorry, but I love you and I hope you enjoy it. As i have stated in the past, i firmly believe fluff is chicken soup for the soul, so eat up. This is a pro-garlic blog btw.

“I feel like shit.” Your voice came out as more of a groan where you had cocooned yourself in blankets on your sofa. It was mid-morning, sunlight peeking through the bottom of the blinds which you insisted stay closed, news being a background hum as you watched the television without really absorbing any of it at all.

“You look like shit.” Roger agreed, peering around the door from the kitchen.

“Don’t be mean, I’m sickly.” You admonished him, shooting for self important, but missing the mark by a wide margin and it came out as a sulky huff. This, of course, just made Roger laugh, returning to the kitchen.

“Alright, alright!” You hear him concede with a chuckle, following it quickly with, “and don’t worry, love, food’s on it’s way.” And that’s when you feel yourself tune back into the reality of the apartment, rather than the dreamy, nauseous haze it felt like you’ve been floating in. You can hear the bubbling of something boil, and Roger moving around the kitchen, before he stop and then there’s chopping sounds.

“Are you cooking for me?” You ask, struggling to a standing position and shuffling your way to the kitchen door, still wrapped in your blanket. There, Roger stood over a chopping board on the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he crushed some garlic that he’d just finished chopping, beneath the flat edge of the knife. “Are you making me soup, Rog?” You ask, possibly still a little delirious, caught off guard by the kind gesture. Looking up, he seems surprised to see you, looking a little tearfully at the bubbling pot, like you’d never seen anything so beautiful in your life.

“Why are you up, love? Go sit back down.” Putting down the knife, he strides across the space to meet you, gently guiding you back to sit on the sofa. “Yes, I’m making soup, have been for about twenty minutes now.” He paused, watching you get settled stretching out, wrapping yourself back up in all number of fluffy blankets. “How much garlic is too much garlic?” He asks after a beat, and you yawn.

“No such thing.” You assured him, sneezing as if to punctuate the statement, though somehow it just made you cuter. Roger moved the tissue box closer to you, and took your empty water cup back to the kitchen to refill it. When he came back, you were smiling at him, trusting and unguarded, though a little hazy.

“You’re so good to me.” You mumbled, eyes drifting closed again as the warmth of the blankets and the gentle monotony of the new anchor’s voice lulled you back into a state of quiet serenity. He felt the slightest twinge of guilt; after all you two had been through it was the least he could do to look after you while you were sick.

“Get some rest, soup will be ready… soonish.” He supplied, and you hummed in sleepy acknowledgement before he went back to the kitchen.

He does a surprisingly good job, not that making soup is particularly challenging, and he only burns his hand once when trying to reposition the pot on the stove. It smells divine, full of garlic and ginger and any other healing vegetables the woman at the store had recommended, and the carrots in the fridge that, while still good, had been sitting there for a while. You’re asleep when he walks into the living room with two bowls in his hands. It hits him in the chest a little, to see you so fragile and vulnerable, trusting him so easily, and he finds himself wondering what he’d ever done to deserve you.

“Soup?” You asked, bleary-eyed, propping yourself up on your elbows at you see him standing in the doorframe. This snaps him out of his own thoughts, and he sets the bowls down on the coffee table, gently shifting you to a sitting position so he could sit beside you on the sofa. You pull your arms from your blanket cocoon and pick up the bowl, settling in as Roger moved to turn the television to something more entertaining, settling on a rerun of  _I Dream of Jeannie_. You hum along to the theme tune as you blow on your soup to cool it down, and Roger sits beside you.

It’s a comfortable silence that stretches between the two of you, the soup warming you from the inside out. You’re focused hard enough on not spilling it on yourself that it takes you a moment to remember that Roger is even sitting next to you once you’ve started eating.

“What if I get you sick?” You gasp, clutching your bowl to your chest and looking at him wide wide-eyed horror. Roger repressed his urge to laugh at the sight, spoon halfway to his mouth. After a beat, he lowers it back to his bowl, gently putting the bowl back on the table and wrapping an arm around you, pulling you close to his side.

“Then you’ll have to take care of me, I guess.” He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. You muse on this for a long second, having another sip of soup as you think, before looking back at him.

“I think I could do that.” You agreed, and he smiled fondly at you, rubbing your shoulder. After another moment, he let go of you, grabbing his lunch once more, settling in.

“That was good, you did good.” You murmured gently once you’d finished, trying to settle against him, but jerking away for a moment to sneeze. The violent movement made your whole body ache, and you let out a low moan of pain as you reached forwards to grab a tissue.

“Do you want some more water?” Roger asked, already standing and reaching for your almost empty cup. Nodding with little more than a groan, you settled back against the sofa, pouting at your own body’s immune system failings.

Once he gets back, you take a few sips before putting the cup on the table. When you look at him, he’s sitting at the edge of the sofa, further away than you’d like, but he’s smiling. He takes a pillow from beside himself and places it in his lap, petting the pillow as an invite.

“Come here, love.” He says fondly, and you let give him a goofy, pleased grin as you take your cue, laying your head in his lap.

With the television playing in the background, soup in your belly, and Roger gently scratching at your scalp, you manage to fall asleep; warm, happy, and full I’ve love.


	11. what it's worth {Brian May}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @ceruleanrainblues asked: Hi! Let me just say that your writing is so inspiring and marvelous, it such a joy to read your stories, so thank you for sharing them dear!💖💖🙌 😊 I was also wondering if you could write something with Brian? Like reader is a photographer but also really shy so she ends up taking a lot of pictures of him? You can totally add something else if you want! Have a good day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2957 words. Sorry it took so damn long to finally get around to this. I hope you enjoy it! I don’t think this is what you asked for, but I think Smile-Era boys are the least tense of the bunch and I just wanted this to be light and fun. Ruby, I’m so glad I could finally write for you, your support and encouragement is honestly one of my favourite parts of running this blog, and every time I see I get a comment from you my heart absolutely sings. You’re a delight. Sorry, this got really personal and sappy, anyways, have a blast this was cute to write.

The university hires you whenever they need someone cheap to take photos at student nights; you’d seen more bar fights, shitty bands, and twenty-somethings in togas than any respectable person probably should. So on nights like tonight, where the band is good and the crowd is stable, you’re allowed to actually enjoy yourself. Taking a few, sparing photos of students for the university’s paper, you’re still hiding behind your camera like a shield when you finally start to take photos of the band.

 _Don’t Forget To Smile_ is the name of the band, with a big pair of lips printed on the bass drum, and okay, maybe you think it’s a cute concept, and maybe you  _did_ smile, but only a little. You knew a thing or two about music, not a lot, a little more than the average listener, perhaps, and they were half decent for a university band. The vocals were a little all over the place, but the vocalist was playing bass as well, the drums were high energy, and well, you’d always been a sucker for a good bass riff, and this one was really making you feel  _some_ type of way.

When you lower your camera to take a real look at the band, you find yourself captivated; the drummer and the bass player were men you’d seen a thousand times before, admittedly in bands far worse than this, but the guitarist, he had sharp features and an easy confidence about the way he played. His intensity, his focus, it had you almost entranced and you found yourself unable to look away. 

As the song came to an end he looked up, eyes scanning over the crowd as he gave himself a beat between songs to relax, and his eyes fell upon you, still holding up your camera, looking at him with awe. The moment he grins at you, you can feel yourself flush, reflexively covering your face with your camera, hiding your own shy smile as you move to take better angled shots of the band. He regards you with interest for a few more moments before the drums kick the next song to life.

“You’re on official business, I see.” He catches you in between sets taking photos of people laughing by the bar. You let yourself take the shot before acknowledging him with a half-smile, pulling the lanyard from your pocket that had granted you free entry into the event.

“I’m with the uni.” You explain, and he hands the lanyard back with a grin.

“Well I’m with the band,” and he held out his hand, which you took, your grip surprisingly firm, “Brian.” You tell him your name in return and his smile grows just a little bit wider. “Well, Y/N, if it’s not too much trouble can I grab the boys and get a photo?” To which you of course agree. They introduce themselves easily enough, the blonde one whose name you’ve already forgotten giving you a leering smile, which you easily ignore. Once the photo’s taken they head back to start their next set; when Brian catches your eye, he grins, and you find yourself smiling back.

Monday, when you develop the photo, you’ll see the drummer looking at someone off camera, a girl who you remember was calling his name, the singer looking like he had literally no idea where he was, and Brian beaming at you- at the camera, and you’re pretty sure it’s your favourite shot of the night.

* * *

“I remember you!” The next time you see the band, they’ve lost the singer, which you’re not super cut about, and they’ve upgraded to a man named Freddie on vocals, and a man named John on bass. You hadn’t noticed him at first, standing at the bar waiting for his drink before the band began playing for the night, but he heard your voice, saw your camera, and was beaming before you’d even processed who he was. “It’s good seeing you again, uh-” He hesitated on your name, face falling as he couldn’t seem to recall it, but you tell him again, smiling despite yourself.

“You want anything? My shout.” He offered, gesturing to where the bartender was sorting out his change, and you hesitated for a moment. Nodding, you tell the bartender your order, nothing too fancy, you didn’t want to seem like you were taking advantage of his kindness, and thanked him softly. The two of you drink in silence, you cradling your camera in one hand and your drink in the other, sitting on a stool and looking out over the crowd, him watching with amusement as the drummer -  _Roger!_ That had been bugging you for  _weeks_ now - tweaked his drum kit and Freddie paced back and forth on the stage.

“You on official business tonight?” Brian asks without looking at you, still looking at his band mates, but you were halfway through a long sip of drink, not expecting a question, and your mouth moves faster than your brain, trying to answer before you’d lowered your cup. He’s there in a flash, gingerly taking your camera and holding it out from you so it couldn’t be damaged, though the strap was still around your neck, and you unlooped it as you realised you’d managed to spill some on yourself. 

“You carry a camera you can get in pretty much anywhere for free.” Unlooping said camera from around your neck, you put down your drink and take the dishcloth the bartender was offering you, patting yourself dry. 

“So, no?” Brian asked, and you finally look up to meet his gaze; he’s looking amused, but only a little, he mostly seems apologetic, holding the camera so carefully it looks as if he’s afraid it’ll shatter in his hands. Holding his gaze for a beat, you can feel yourself flush, cloth pressed to your now mostly clean chest.

“Not  _technically_.” You agree, repressing a grin as you took the camera from him, putting the cloth on the table. Looking your equipment over to double check that it was fine, you lifted the viewfinder to your eye, focusing the camera on Brian. “One for safety?” You asked, and he posed obligingly, leaning against the bar with a beer in hand.

He’s not looking at the camera when the picture’s taken, he’s looking at you, though you don’t really notice at the time, and he’s smiling.

“So is this for your personal collection?” He asks, and you can feel the blood rushing to your cheeks at the implication, avoiding his gaze as you lower the camera, fiddling with the settings to keep your hands busy.

“I don’t- no, I just- you make me sound like a pervert.” You huff, and he laughs at that, a low, easy chuckle, not a mean note in the sound, “I can scrap it if you’d prefer.” But he’s already waving you off, patting your hand in reassurance.

“I didn’t mean it like that, don’t worry.” But he’s called away before you can respond. You see him again a few times throughout the night, meet the new band members, take a few photos, and once,  _maybe_ twice, you caught him watching you while he was meant to be in conversation with someone else at the bar, or by the stage. And when you smiled at him, just something small, perhaps a little confused by him paying you attention, he smiled back.

* * *

It’s a week later and you’re in an unfamiliar pub, clutching your camera like a lifeline, weaving through tipsy students listening as  _Smile_ filled the room with their music. There’s butterflies in your stomach as you hover at the edge of the room, unable to reach the bar for the other patrons, and you pull your camera up to cover your face out of instinct. You get a few shots of the band, some of the people dancing, one of pool table right as a game started and all the ball scattered with a  _crack,_ and before you know it there’s a hand on your back where you’re leaning down to get a low angle shot as the next player lined up his own shot, and you realise the band has finished their first set.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” And you hear the grin in Brian’s words before you even see him as you spin to face him with a start. Almost overbalancing, you’re grateful when he catches you with a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m not really the going out type.” You agree, voice quiet, but before he could comment on that particular fact one way or the other, you were already rifling through the bag you had slung over one shoulder, pulling out an envelope. With little fuss, you presented it to him, not wanting to think about how when he moved his hand from your shoulder to take the photos, something in your chest tightens at the loss of contact. A little confused, he flips through the contents, and a smile grows on his face as he realises what you’ve handed him.

“These are from last week, right?” He asked, eyes shining brightly as he pulled out a few to have a closer look at the photographs. 

“For  _your_ personal collection.” You said, to which he laughed, a little incredulously. 

“These… these are really quite good.” His eyes roamed over some of the more action-orientated shot’s you’d gotten of the band, seeming to favour the landscape one of him in the foreground, guitar being held up by it’s neck as he revelled in what he remembered to be the final shot, with Roger in the background, head thrown back, arms raised in triumph. Though you were a little offended by his tone of surprise, you go to turn back to taking photos of the pool game, but he makes an amused noise in the back of his throat.

“I thought this one was yours?” He asked, and he’s holding out the one you’d taken of him by the bar. You wouldn’t admit it, but you did really like the photo; you liked capturing people’s genuine smiles, and he was absolutely exuding joy in the shot. Shaking your head, you try to refuse.

“I don’t- wouldn’t it be weird? Me just having a photo of you?” You asked, and Brian pressed his lips together, biting back a smile.

“It  _would_ be weird.” He agreed. “I think I need a photo of you; you can write your name on the back so I don’t forget who you are like I did last time.” And you find yourself agreeing, passing over your camera and hoping to god you don’t look as flushed in the finished project as you feel. Leaning awkwardly against the pool table, you cross your arms over your chest, not used to being on the other side of the camera.

“It won’t turn out as good as your photo of me did,” he warned, adding after a beat, “not that you’re not beautiful, love, I’m just no expert photographer.” And he snaps the photo right as your hand moves to cover your giggle. The laughter relaxed your whole image, and when the photo develops, you can see the way he’s captured your joy, a little hunched in on yourself, but hand blurry, moving to cover a bright, toothy grin that hadn’t been hidden in time.

“So when can I get that off you?” He asked, passing the camera back, to which you shrugged.

“I can develop it on Monday at the uni.” Is all you supplied him with, and he thought for a long while. After a moment, he looked through the set of photos you’d given him, pausing for a beat to snort out a laugh at a particularly terrible face Roger was making in one, before finally just deciding to take the one of himself that he’d given to you, writing on the back and passing it back to you.

“That’s the pub we’re playing at next Saturday.” He told you, and you’re smiling as he hands it back. 

“I’ll be there with bells on.” You joked, and he raised his eyebrows, looking far too serious to actually  _be_ serious.

“You better not be, you might overshadow us.” But you can hear the thinly veiled amusement in his words, though you still play up the joke, just a little.

“I’m sure, if I wasn’t kidding,” you clarified, and you saw him physically hold back a laugh, “that I could never be louder than- than whatever it is that Roger do-”

“He drums, love,” he cuts you off, casting a glance over his shoulder to where the rest of the band  that’s  _technically_ called drumming.” Your answering smile was enough of a gentle, unspoken ‘ _I know’_ to have Brian shaking his head in exasperated amusement as he headed back to the stage for the next set.

* * *

“More photos? You really are obsessed with us, aren’t you, love?” Brian’s grinning enough to let you know he’s kidding as he looks through the photos you bring him the next week, in a pub that is again, wholly unfamiliar to you. He gives pause at a few, especially a few well framed ones of himself and Freddie, before he gets to the last one. It’s the one he took of you, a little overexposed, a little bit blurry, but by the look in his eyes, it’s easily his favourite. He’s actually a little lost for words.

“My name’s on the back.” You add, gently flipping him to show you where you’d written your name for him, just as he’d asked. His fond smile grows wider, and after looking at it for a beat, he flips the photo back over to gaze at the picture of you just a little longer. After a beat, he looks up at you, still smiling, a little hopeful this time.

“Hey, do you think you could add one more thing to the back for me?” He asked, passing the photo back. Pulling a pen from your bag obligingly, you see the moment he decides to take a calculated risk, lips twitching the smile into something a little more mischievous. “Your phone number.” It takes you a moment, but you’re grinning, nodding emphatically as you scribbled down your number on the back of the photograph, pressing it back into his hands with your heart knocking excitedly against your ribs. 

It’s your turn to take a risk, you decide, both of you still holding the photograph, and you lean forward, pulling him a little bit closer to press a kiss to his lips. He seems surprised when you pull away, rocking back on your heels trying to assess his reaction. It takes only the barest moment for him to process it, however, before he’s stepping into your space and pulling you in to another kiss. Roger lets out a wolf whistle from somewhere across the room and Brian flips him off without even looking, just letting himself smile against your lips.

* * *

When the two of you move into your first apartment together  _months_ later, the first thing you do is pin up your five favourite photos. The first is, of course, the one you took of Brian, Roger, and Tim, on that first night in the uni pub where Brian’s beaming at you past the camera; you’d lost the original, so you’d had to search through the uni paper’s archives to copy one from there. The second was one of  _Smile_ , now  _Queen_ , with all four of the boys, back when things were still a bit shaky, though they’d settled considerably.

The photos you took of each other you don’t hang up, you keep your photo of him in a photo album, where all your best and most treasured photos go. He keeps his photo of you in his wallet, folded up, and it’s a little worse for wear now, but he always has it with him.

The third photo you hang up is one you’d taken on your first date, awkwardly framed since the person passing by who you’d asked to take the photo wasn’t particularly good at what they were doing, but you loved it, you had your arms around each other and Brian had kissed your cheek at the last minute, which was immortalised in the photo.

The fourth photo was a little bit ruined by Roger making a face in the bottom corner, but Freddie had picked up your camera while the band had been recording their first album, and while the sound designer had been fiddling with some settings, and Brian hadn’t been needed thus far, the two of you had fallen asleep on one another on the sofa. He’s sitting up and you’re curled up against him, your head on his shoulder, Mary’s jacket on your legs as some sort of blanket where she’s somewhere out of shot.

The fifth shot is your favourite, if only because you’re both in your element. It’s a polaroid, you’re not sure who it was taken by, only that it was given to you after a rehearsal at one of their bigger gigs. You’re standing on the second step of the drum risers, lights flooding the parcans and between your legs, shining directly onto Brian who’s playing for you, so you can get a good movement shot. The polaroid was taken from the side, you’re both in profile, and it’s managed to capture the hint of your affectionate smile amid the shadow on your face, and he’s grinning brightly, so full of joy and enthusiasm to be there, modelling for you.

So you hang up your five favourite photos, and leave space to put up  _many_ more.


	12. dinner plans {John Deacon}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked:i neeeeeed a super fluffy deaky proposal piece!!! 💗💗💗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1041 words. A little fic because i’m feeling sappy.

When you walk in the door the smell of something delicious and familiar wafts through the house,, and the lights in the living room are off. 

“John?” You call for your boyfriend, a little nervous, unsure of what was happening, but the tension building in your chest eased as soon as his head pop around the door to the kitchen.

“Oh! You’re home! How was your day?” He’s smiling so brightly, despite the fact that he was wearing an apron and one of the decorative mittens that usually hung above the oven. It’s not that they weren’t functional, it’s just that neither you nor John usually used them, preferring the easier to access ugly mitten beside the stove.

“You look cute; what’s all this?” You ask, making your way to where he waits in the door frame, expression turning a little more amused, perhaps a little more sly as you lean in to kiss him in greeting. Hands coming to rest on his shoulders, you lean back a little to give him an inquiring look.

“Take a wild guess, darling; do I  _look_ like I’m dressed to play cricket?” He asked, half exasperated, stepping back into the kitchen, leading you in, smiling as he hears you laugh.

“So you  _are_ cooking dinner.” You giggle at his sarcasm, pulling out a chair and sitting yourself at the kitchen table, propping your chin up on your hand, watching as he began to buzz about the little room. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s just been a very good day, Y/N, I thought I’d keep it going.” You can hear him smiling, even as he’s got his head in a cupboard, presumably looking for the good china.

“What happened?” You asked, and he turns, plates in hand, repressing a grin.

“I think I asked you first,” he mused, placing the plates in front of you, the fancy patterned ones that he only liked to use on special occasions. 

“But you’re so happy, I love seeing you like this, John.” The honestly in your reply made him give pause, his lips twitching into a fond smile. There was such love, such affection in his gaze as he looked at you, just wanting to hear what he had to say, no hesitation, only adoration; it warmed his heart further, though he hadn’t thought that had been possible.

“EMI wants us to do another album.” He announced, and the way your whole face lit up at the news, excitement and pride written all over you, he had to stop himself blurting out what he wanted to say right then and there.

“That’s incredible! Oh, congratulations!” You jumped from your seat, wrapping your arms around him, and he hugged you back, pressing his lips to your shoulder to hide how he’s beaming, both from pride and anticipation.

“Yeah, you remember the grandiose, operatic idea we’ve been playing with?” Stepping back, he moved to turn off the stove, making sure none of the food was overcooked. “They agreed. We’re being shipped off to a recording studio in a month or so.” And he starts plating up, looking down at the food while you gazed at him in awe. When he meets your gaze, he stops, a little surprised that you’re being so quiet, though sunshine is all but beaming from your smile. “Thoughts?”

“Your  _own_ studio.” You mused, humming low and proud as you took his whole ensemble and statement in as one. Soft, wonderful John was the bassist of a rock band that had toured overseas, and here he was making you dinner. “God, I’m so fucking proud of you, John, I can’t  _wait_ to watch you to get everything you deserve in life.” You mused, and your words struck a chord in him, and he had to take a long moment as the sentiment of your words really sunk in. After a beat, he put down the saucepan and took off the oven mitt.

“Good things, I hope.” His voice gentle, he took your hand, pulling you to your feet. 

“Of course,  _only_ good things.” You assured him, giving him a gentle squeeze, your heart warm with pride in your chest.

“Then marry me,” he couldn’t help himself, feeling like he was going to burst if he waited any longer. For you, it had felt like your heart had stopped in your chest for a moment, eyes going wide as you gasp gently, “because I don’t want you to just watch me, I want you to be there too. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and whether or not I deserve you, well,” he shrugged a little, though his expression was hopeful, “that’s for you to say. I love you.” You could only watch in awe as he lowered himself to one knee, in the middle of the kitchen, still wearing the apron, pulling out a little velvet box. “Will you marry me?” The silence was deafening, and after a moment, he cast a nervous gaze around the kitchen, before admitting. “I did- I had a whole romantic dinner thing planned, I just-”

“Yes.” And you fall to your knees beside him with a disbelieving grin, hands clasping his where he’s still holding the box. 

“Yes?” He confirmed, and you nodded emphatically, fingers fumbling to pull the ring from the box as you moved in to kiss him.

“Yes, yes, yes,  _of course_.” You punctuated each word with a kiss, so full of joy that you can’t help but laugh as he slips the ring on your finger. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him close, overflowing with love as you felt the cool metal of the ring rest against your finger. “I love you, John.” You murmur, and he pulled back, an adoring smile on his face.

“I know, I’m sorry this didn’t go as planned, I did try-” and he looks up to the plates on the table and your eyes widen, finally recognising-

“That’s my favourite.” You realise he really had tried to make your favourite dinner; he really did plan this out.

“The lounge room is all candle-lit, it was going to be-” you cut him off with a kiss, laughing, before your voice turns soft.

“John, it  _is_ perfect.”


	13. sweet chaos {Brian May}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anons asked (in a roundabout way, I lost the original prompts): Brian/Reader where she has a crush on him but he thinks she’s into another one of the band members, and when he confronts her, he tells her he has feelings too? Also, Brian/Reader where they meet in the studio and there’s flirting and they end up together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3640 words. Something about Brian just makes me wanna write a lot apparently. Y/N is just…. so chaotic. ANYWAYS, so this is the fic I wrote last night and then lost, but I’ve managed to salvage it, and I’m happy with how it turned out. I’m so sorry to the two beautiful anons whose prompts were lost to my mistake last night, just know this goes out to you.

“Deaks, when did you get  _cool_?” You gaze around the studio with an almost awed expression, hands shoved in the pockets of your jacket, before finally turning your grin on John, who was crouched by his bass case, looking up at you with a singular raised eyebrow.

“I’ve always been cool.” John was adamant about this, pulling out his bass and clicking the case shut. “You just don’t appreciate me.” After a moment, in which you rolled your eyes at him, he secured the strap on his instrument and looked up at you with an amused smile. “A year ago.” He conceded, and your eyes went wide.

“ _A ye_ -  _John Francis Deacon_ -” You cut yourself off, spluttering in surprise.

“ _Not_  my middle name.” He interjected, though you just talked over him, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

“You’ve been in a band for a  _year_  and you didn’t think to tell me? I’ve been living with you for like a  _week_!” You crowed, and your theatrics had earned both a chuckle from John, and the attention of the three other boys in the room; the rest of the band.

“You care to introduce us to your friend?” The blonde one asked, eyebrows raised, confusion clear on his face.

“If I must,” John gave you a long suffering smile, before turning on his heel to face the others, “Roger, Brian, Freddie, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Roger, Brian, and Freddie, the band.” He gestured between you all, and it takes a moment for him to finally finish processing everything you had said. “How have you known me this long and not known my middle name?”

And, okay, he did have a point; you’d grown up living next door to each other, had been practically joined at the hip since some kid had tried to push you off the swing beside him, and so you’d pushed the kid back, yelling ‘ _go away, he’s my friend_ ’. You been through primary school and high school together, and it was only when John went to uni and you took a year to backpack across Europe, that you really spent a meaningful amount of time apart.

“Is it Jonathan?” You asked, feigning innocence, and John had to actually stop, where he was tuning his bass to suppress a smile. You couldn’t look at him, if you did, you knew you would just break into a fit of giggles. Instead, you took the moment to really give a good look at the band. The blonde one behind the drums, Roger as he’d been introduced, didn’t seem to know what to do with you, and instead just went back to setting up his equipment. Freddie, who had been quietly warming up his voice on the other side of the room, had paused for the moment, analysing you with a serious look before his gaze came up to meet yours. He gave an approving nod, and went back to his work, already bouncing with energy and anticipation. The guitarist, Brian, just seemed amused by the banter, looking between you and John with a loose grip on his guitar.

“ _Yes_ , my mother named me John  _Jonathan_.” His words were practically dripping with sarcasm, but you kept your composure, not even cracking a smile.

“I’ve met Lilian, I wouldn’t put it past her..” You clicked your tongue, raising your eyebrows at John. After a beat, his eyes went wide and he tried to protest, but your facade cracked and you chuckled fondly at his exasperation, and you hear Brian laugh too, before he goes back to also tuning his guitar. “I’m  _kidding_ , Deaks, you know I love your mum,” your waved him off with a fond smile, making a move to leave the recording studio, but thought better of it, turning back with a mischievous grin. John’s expression immediately became suspicious. “And of course I know your middle name; it’s Dick.”

“ _Richard_.” He corrected automatically, the word accompanied by an eyeroll. You heard Roger snort out a laugh.

“How do you get  _Dick_  from  _Richard_?” Freddie asked with a confused frown, stopping his pacing. The moment the words left his mouth, you’re pretty sure you can see John spontaneously form a headache, and your grin sharpens.

“ _You ask him nicely_.” You hear both you and Brian say at the same time. There’s a beat of silence, and you both look at each other, sharing an amused moment of camaraderie, much to John’s exasperation.

“I like this one.” You say, voice firm, pointing directly at Brian. His smile widened before he ducked his head, going back to his guitar. John had just started shaking his head at you, but he was smiling so you knew you weren’t in any real trouble.

In the sound studio, the tech they had on, as well as the other two girls, Mary and Kristin, they introduced themselves as, greeted you warmly enough, and thus started one of the longest and best nights of your life so far.

John was good at bass, much better than you had realised, much better than he had any right to be, at least that’s how you phrase it in your head when you’re resting your chin on his shoulder, listening to the playback of his latest version of the song they’d been working at for about half an hour. Eyes glassy, your mouth remained shut as the boys bandied about musical terms and ideas that you didn’t really understand, though you knew you’d appreciate their end product. John sort of loved that about you, your ability to walk the fine line between irritating and lovable, yet also knowing when to keep your mouth shut if you didn’t think you could contribute to a conversation as well as you’d like.

“You’ve been awfully quiet, what do you think, Y/N?” Brian’s smiling up at you from where he’s sat in a wheelie chair they’d co-opted from the office in the next room. Snapping back to reality, you take a step back from John, looking to the now-empty studio, and then to your best friend.

“What do I think?” It takes all of your effort not to just blurt out  _exactly_ what you  _had_ been thinking;  _I watched John eat a worm once and now he’s making kick ass music and I don’t know how to consolidate those two mental images of him in my mind. “_ Great.” You answer instead. “I think it sounds great.” After a beat, you duck your gaze, laughing a little self consciously, “I don’t know a lot about music so I can’t really offer much feedback.” 

“Well, if you stick around, we can probably teach you a think or two.” He shrugged, but there was clearly an offer in his words, and you smile, before turning and raising your eyebrows at John, as silent question asking if you could stay.

“He’s the one who made the offer, not me.” John just put his hands up in mock surrender, pushing you a few steps closer to Brian as he maneuvered around you to head back into the recording studio. “She’s your problem now, Bri.” He called over his shoulder, giving you a sunny smile, which only served to make you irritated.

“ _Problem?”_ You huffed, before stalking over to the sound desk, leaning over it as you turned on the microphone. “Don’t disrespect me like that,  _John Jonathan_ , I watched you eat a  _worm!”_ And to that, John, along with the rest of the band and those in the sound studio, laughed, and you felt the tension leave you as you cracked a smile. After a moment, you see John pulling up his bass, and there’s a gentle tap on your left hip, and you turn, seeing the sound technician waiting with pointedly raised eyebrows. Stepping back quickly, you move to make room for him, promptly falling right onto Brian, who was the one who had been trying to get you to move in the first place.

John’s started playing again so no-one else hears Brian’s quiet grunt of discomfort at your landing. Scrambling to stand up and apologise, you hear him quietly laugh, reaching out to take hold your wrist, not to keep you there, more like a reassurance.

“It’s fine, you’re my problem, after all.” And despite the fact that you resent being called  _a problem_  at all, the way he’s smiling at you, the way he says it, well maybe it didn’t sound too bad.

The sound got more experimental as the night wore on, and once they’d reached the tipping point while recording the tenuously titled ‘ _Seven Seas of Rhye’_ the night became electric. You spent your time often on your feet, bouncing around the space, listening with a grin as the others would suggest a new, eclectic ideas. If you weren’t in Brian’s lap in the wheelie chair, which you’d claimed as your seat for the night, you were dancing with Mary, or John, or even Roger and Kristin, you’re pretty sure you’ve been a part of something truly extraordinary by hearing this album being created.

“Alright, alright,” when the night wraps up and John comes to collect you, you’re with Brian, chatting to Mary with his chin on your shoulder, “time to head home, dear.” Mary excused herself from the conversation, heading off to find Freddie, while you turned and gave John’s outstretched hand an unimpressed look.

“You cut me loose, Deaks, I was in the market for a new best mate and you pushed me at poor Brian here,” shaking your head, you lay the faux disappointment on thick, crossing your arms and leaning back just a little further against Brian, who was grinning with amusement at the whole situation, “this is really all your fault.” You added, but John just rolled his eyes, smiling exasperatedly at you.

“It’s fine by me, I’d love to have you off my sofa, but I just thought I’d let you know,” and he cast his gaze towards the recording studio, “Brian lives with Roger.” He said pointedly as Kristin’s high, sweet laugh rang through the air, and you saw Roger was grinning confidently, showing her how to twirl a drumstick in favour of packing up his drum kit. Standing abruptly, you took John’s free hand.

“Yeah, probably a good call.” Brian’s expression soured, but then he turned back to face you, smiling brightly. “Lovely to meet you, though; we’ll be seeing you again, right?”

“You guys play gigs?” You asked, and he nodded. “Well then, now that John’s let me in on this dirty little secret of his, I think you’d be hard pressed to stop me.” And with a final, playful wink, you loop your arm through John’s and leave the studio.

And, well, you do see them again. You see them a lot; you’re there every weekend, at gigs, sometimes in rehearsals, you become as regular of a fixture as Mary. The boys liked having you around, you were friendly and bright, and you actually seemed to bring John out of his shell a little. In general, you found it easy to be around them, being close to them, and soon enough, you’ll find yourself comfortable enough to just lean against them when you’re standing close, at bars or during a break in rehearsals. Casual hugs, arms around shoulders, it’s a staple of your existence with the band, which you love because -  _yay! Human contact!_ \- but with it comes a pretty big detractor.

It’s damn hard to establish whether or not the goofy guitarist who smiles like  _goddamn sunshine_ , and who you  _may_ have an enormous crush on, is even remotely interested in you as more than anything more than a friend. You’d really tried not to like him like that, for John’s sake at least; he was your best friend, you couldn’t jeopardise your friendship with him, and his band mate, but the heart wants what it wants, and yours wants Brian to never stop smiling at you the way he does when he’s on stage and he sees you cheering for them in the crowd. He’s always the first to hug you when you arrive to a show, never one to brush you off when you tuck your arm into his when you’re both waiting for drinks at the bar, he plays along well when you’re doing a bit, and he’s always the first to drag you away whenever you’re about to get in a scrap with Roger.

That was the main problem you had with the band; Roger was  _far_ too easy to wind up, and you were far too willing to kick that hornet’s nest whenever the whim struck you. He respects you well enough, likes you well enough, is even willing to share the armchair in the hall outside the rehearsal room when you two are the first ones to arrive, and the others show up and you’re both arguing over an article in the paper but he’s got an arm around you for stability. It’s not that you don’t get along with Roger, it’s just sometimes fun to watch him get worked up over a joke. Like when you’d told him you’d seen better drumming in a high school marching band. You’d almost copped a drumstick to the face for that one, but you’d caught it just before it had landed, and after a beat of silence in which the both of look a little impressed at your reflexes, you both break out into unintelligible arguing, drawing the attention of both John and Brian who had been chatting at the side of the room. 

You’re about a foot away from the drum kit, brandishing the drum stick and threatening to shove it somewhere unpleasant, and Roger was standing, looking a little like he was two seconds from crashing directly through the drum kit to tackle you, when you feel a pair of arms around you, and you’re being dragged away. Looking around, you see John advancing on Roger like he’s a spooked horse, trying to calm him down.

Once you realise it’s Brian, you stop trying to get away, and simply let yourself be walked backwards until the two of you are near the door, and he turns you, arms still around you, so he’s blocking Roger from your sight.

“Why do you have to rile him up like that?” Brian asks, and you turn around so that you’re toe to toe.

“It’s not  _my_ fault he doesn’t know how to take a joke.” You grumbled, crossing your arms awkwardly as they’re trapped between the two, though Brian doesn’t loosen his grip, in fact, he seems rather endeared by your antics.

“Can I have that?” He asks, eyes dropping to the drumstick in your hands, and you snorted. You can hear Roger in the background angrily murmuring that he’s fine.

“I caught it, it’s mine, fair and square.” You say, voice lofty. “It’s a trophy.” You added, and that set Roger off again, just as Freddie walked through the door.

“ _It’s a trophy,_ my ass! Give me back my drum stick, you knob!” He hollers, and you use the element of surprise to shift both yourself and Brian to face the enraged drummer, though he doesn’t let go of you. John’s got his arms around Roger, but he’s not being held nearly as securely as you.

“This trophy will go  _up_ your ass! Call me lazy again!” You dared at the top of your lungs, even as you were being hauled backwards. “Let go of me, Brian!” You protested as Roger broke free of John and started wrestling one of his cymbals from it’s stand, to both John and Freddie’s shouted protests. “You throw that cymbal and I’m keeping it too!” Are the last words you get in before the door to the rehearsal space shuts and you hear it lock, presumably by Freddie. Brian lets go of her and promptly sat himself on the armchair in the hallway, looking like he was trying to process what had just happened.

With your back against the door, you twirl the drumstick absentmindedly, a skill you’d picked up quite by accident, simply by virtue of having seen Roger show off so much. It’s not something that goes unnoticed by Brian, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Why?” Is all he asks, and you finally look up. When your gazes meet, you lob the drumstick gently over to the side of the room, already bored with it.

“He was being a dickhead.” You sighed, as if it were answer enough, letting the tension out of your shoulders and resting your head against the door. Silence stretched between you, and when your gaze shifted from the ceiling to look at Brian, he was waiting with a half-smile for an elaboration. “Rog told me that if I was going to just laze around I should start looking cute or being helpful,” already your explanation made far too much sense, and Brian chuckled. “So I said I only help out people with talent, and that the rest of you were fine-” you don’t know what to make of his pleased little smile, but you’re already getting to your feet and making your way over to him, “and of course he feels the need to prove himself.” You say, sitting down on Brian’s lap. Sitting sideways, you hang your legs over the arm of the armchair and rest your cheek on his shoulder. It’s automatic, the way he rests a hand on your thigh, the other coming to wrap around you in support.

“Wouldn’t have mattered what he’d played, would it?” You can hear him smiling, and he already knows your answer.

“He implied that I was  _lazy_ and  _not cute_.” You made a face, like you couldn’t believe it, even after the fact. “ _Me_!” Brian couldn’t help but chuckle at that, though his heart wasn’t in it.

“I have to ask, is this some weird, passive-aggressive flirting technique you’re using on him?” And when he says it, you sit bolt upright, frowning deeply, flushing with embarrassment; he thinks you’re flirting with  _Roger_ of all people?

“I don’t know how to flirt with people I  _do_ have a thing for, let alone  _Roger_.” But as soon as the words left your mouth, you felt your face heat up further, and you scrambled to a standing position. “What makes you say that?” 

“Well you do talk about his butt a lot.” Brian himself seemed unable to look at you, and you started pacing.

“I threaten his ass a lot, I’m not- Is this about what I said about the drum stick?” You asked, eyeing the singular wooden drum stick where it’s lying on the floor. You don’t pick it up.

“You also- the spinny thing he does with it. It’s a thing he does to show off, like his signature, I just-” He’s floundering a little bit, and you find yourself smiling despite the situation.

Coming to a halt, you stand, facing the chair, fond smile on your face as you see where he’s a little flustered. Heartbeat thumping in your ears, you throw caution to the wind, just a little.

“If it was just as easy to learn guitar as it was to twirl a single drumstick, I’d’ve been Jimmy Page  _months_ ago from watching you.” You half smiled, heart in your throat. He finally looks at you, radiating pride despite his bashfulness, which is a sweet look on him, and you gently step forward, settling back down into the chair and curling up by him.

“I like seeing you in the crowd, you know?” He murmured, tapping out a gentle rhythm with his fingers on your thigh.

“I like watching you play.” You respond, before admitting. “It’s one of my favourite things in the world, seeing you up there, all confident; you’re very talented, you know-” and you look up to gauge his reaction, but he cuts you off with a kiss. Relief floods through you as you kiss him back, indulging in what you’d been hoping for for what was  _months_ at this point, since the first studio recording.

“Y/N-” John unlocks and open the door in quick succession, takes one look at where you and Brian had just broken apart, caught absolutely red handed, and immediately shuts the door again. You and Brian take a moment to look at each other, processing what had just happened, before bursting into laughter again, which quickly devolves into more kissing, until he’s gently moving you off of him, reminding you that he still had the rest of band practice to attend.

John is smug during the entire drive back to his house where you’re still crashing on his sofa, a few days away from the paperwork for your own place being finalized.

“I knew it.” Is all he says when you finally snap and tell him that smug, righteous asshole wasn’t a good look on him.

Freddie caught on almost directly after John; he’d picked it up from context clues, and also because at your next gig, Mary seemed to know without you or Brian barely speaking two words to each other. She’d leaned over to Freddie during one of the breaks and asked how long the two of you had actually been together, saying that she’d meant to ask before but it’d never been so obvious. When Freddie tells you this, you almost do a spit-take.

“You’re  _joking_.” You respond, eyes shining with amusement. “What? Is he looking at me differently?” You cheeks flush as you look over your shoulder at where he’s waiting by the bar, and he looks back at you, shooting you a bright grin that made your heart flutter. Looking back, Freddie’s wearing a knowing smile.

“No, he’s always looked at you like that.”


	14. morning light {John Deacon}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: do you think you can write more fluff for deacy like a lil “morning after”ish bc i’m sad and i love him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1877 words. I’m in sever pain and my ankle Hurt. I just want BoRhap’s Another One Bites The Dust!Deaky to tell me it’s going to be okay so picture him, and also just pretend he’s not married please and thank. Not exactly what the prompt asked for but God i’m a sap.

It’s… it’s weird waking up in the morning, and he’s still there, sprawled out beneath the duvet, morning light peaking through the curtains. Not weird  _bad,_ just  _weird_. You didn’t really think you’d get this far; you’d been working as an assistant for the company that produced a majority of their music videos, and somewhere along the way, they’d started remembering you. Well, actually, John started remembering you.

It had started with ‘ _We Are The Champions’,_ in which you had the tedious job of being more or less an usher for the audience, though it was just a small crowd. While you were seating a particularly excited bunch close to the front, you look up for a moment to see the band warming up, and John Deacon smiling fondly at the excited audience members, before he looks to you. For just a moment, you share a look, and he gives a single nod of solidarity, which you return, before you both go back to your jobs.

When you show up to the filming of ‘ _We Will Rock You’,_ practically freezing your ass off in Roger’s backyard, you debate ever getting in to the music industry, and offer to go get coffee and tea for everyone as something to keep you moving.

“I remember you.” You’re so focused on the warmth of the drinks in your hands that you’re surprised when someone says more than ‘ _thank you’_ when you give them theirs. It’s John, smiling at you, shivering, and holding the styrofoam mug so tightly you’re a little afraid it might burst.

“You do?” You answer, and his smile turns amused, before your brain kicks into gear. “I- yeah, I was there for the last shoot.” You agree. “I’m Y/N. I’d shake your hand but-” You gesture helplessly, both hands holding trays of drinks.

“Well it’s lovely to meet you, Y/N, I’m John.” He says, as if you don’t know, and you have to bite back a giggle. It’s then, when he sees the way you smile, and can feel his answering smile brighten, that he decides he likes you.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you too.” You nod at him and he thanks you for his tea before you move on to the others, only preening a  _little bit_ when they praise you for bringing them warmth on the cold, winter day. ‘ _I remember you’_  plays in your head on repeat; you can’t stop thinking about it, about the way he grinned at you like he’d know you his whole life, and you realise a few days later, when you’re still dwelling on it, you don’t even remember how cold it had been, just his smile.

“We really have to stop meeting like this.” On the set of ‘ _Don’t Stop Me Now’_ you’re the one everyone turns to as the go-between for the band and the crew, seeing as how you’d been working with them for over a year at this point. Now, you’re holding out a water bottle to John, pulse a little quick when he fixes you with a surprisingly affectionate grin of thanks, “I was asked to give you guys these.” 

“Is that the water I asked for? That was quick; Y/N you’re a bloody legend.” You hear Roger call from behind you, bounding down from behind the drums to snag one of the other three bottles from your arms. John stays quiet as he takes the drink from you, watching Roger with an amused smile. 

“I’m parched, thank you, dear.” Freddie takes the second, and after you and John share a look, an endeared smile at the grabby but thankful nature of the others, you turn, raising the final water bottle above your head.

“Brian?” You call, and he looks up from where he’s been tuning his guitar.

“Is that for me?” He asks, and you nod with a smile. He comes to collect the drink, and they all disperse back to their original places.

“We really  _do_ have to stop meeting like this; it’s what, the fifth time?” John finally agrees once they’re out of earshot, and you turn back to him, grinning.

“Sixth, actually.” You say, and he nods, making a face like he’s cataloguing the information in the back of his mind.

“Six, wow,” and after a beat, his gaze returns to yours, “six videos and I’ve never seen you at a wrap party?” At that you duck your head with a chuckle.

“I work during the week.” It’s easy to admit; it’s not that you dislike parties, persay, but you’re also not fond of turning up to your day job hungover. John hums, low and thoughtful.

“You should come to tonight’s.” He says, and you hesitate for a moment, looking up in confusion. “You don’t have to drink or anything - ignore whatever Freddie and Roger say - but it’d be nice to have you.” After a beat, he shrugged with a small smile. “But only if you want to, of course.” And you can’t help the small, pleased smile that makes it’s way onto your face as you head back to your station.

You  _do_ attend the party, squirrel yourself away on a sofa in the corner of the room, nursing your drink and talking to a revolving door of people who are getting progressively drunker as the night goes on. It’s getting close to midnight, however, when John finally joins you. The two of you had had a few conversations during the night, but he was inevitably pulled away by someone else, and you didn’t like to admit to the sinking sensation in your chest. 

He asks you if you’re enjoying it, but your answering smile and nod is unconvincing. Truth be told, you were feeling a little lonely, a little out of place, and a little Cinderella having to still get up tomorrow at a reasonable hour. As soon as you admit you’re thinking of heading home, he offers to join you, to make sure you’re safe, telling you it’s no trouble when you try to wave off his kindness.

Your home is within walking distance, and you’re thankful for the breezy Spring air as you walk through the streets talking about everything and nothing with John by your side. He’s got his hands tucked in his pockets, and at one point you tuck your arm into his; he doesn’t comment on it, but you can see him smiling.

You’re an adult enough to admit to yourself that you’d developed a crush on him, observant enough to know he liked you well enough too, unsubtle enough that Roger had told you to get a move on, though he had been quite drunk at the time. As you walk, you’re not sure what’s holding you back, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything.

It turns out, you don’t have to, at your doorstep, he hesitates after saying goodbye, before quickly leaning in and kissing you on the cheek.

“Sleep well.” He says fondly, turning to leave. You reach out, grabbing his hand and he turns back in surprise, and you step forward to press your lips to his, soft and chaste. He’s actually blushing a little when you move back, seems a little surprised.

“You too.” You tell him, voice gentle and fond, and you head inside, catching his flustered smile as you look back over your shoulder.

He gets your number during the next video shoot, or rather, after.

“I should have your number.” Is what he actually says, voice serious like he’s been musing about it for a long time, despite the fact that he’s naked in your bed, a little out of breath, fingers linked with yours as you both take a moment. You’re heart’s still racing and you’re still in quite a heady state, and all you can do is laugh, warm and bright into the darkness of the bedroom.

You wake up the next morning and he’s still there, one arm around you where you’ve got your head on his chest. There’s an anxiety, an uncertainty in your chest, tension creeping into your muscles due to this change, this development in your relationship. But then he wakes up, voice rough with sleep, giving you an easy grin in the morning light as he greets you. 

He’s warm and secure, he always has been, but it’s strange to have such solid confirmation, to feel his arms around you and feel like nothing could move you from that spot if you didn’t want it to.

He calls you, actually follows through and asks you out, and the next thing you know, the two of you are sitting in a fancy restaurant on an  _actual_ date. He’s so unwavering genuine, in his smile, his words, in the warmth he gives off; when you talk, you knows he’s actually listening to what you’re saying. 

You learn he’s an engineer; he sort of fell into music, but he’s always had a passion for electronics, and after a few weeks, he shows you the amp he built (and then the false one he built for his mini fridge, which  _delights_ you). And then he’s plugging in his record player into the amp, puts on some old jazz single you didn’t really think he’d own, and he’s offering you his hand.

Taking it, you do actually giggle at the whole situation, a little bit flustered by the sweetness of it all. You’ve seen him dance on stage, of course, in videos, but here he wraps an arm around you, swaying gently in his studio, the carpet soft beneath your bare feet. As the music picks up a little, he gently prompts you to twirl, and when you’re back in his arms, there’s nothing but adoration in his eyes. You can’t help but kiss him. 

The music keeps playing, but it’s like the two of you are frozen in time, the world falling away around you as you kiss him. Still holding each other like you’re dancing, his grip tightens just a little on your waist, his thumb brushes yours where your hands are linked before he lets go, moving to hold steady on your other hip while you wind your arms around his neck. 

The song comes to an end, but neither of you break apart. The world feels right, here.

So even now, almost a year later, it’s weird to wake up in the morning, sometimes, and see him there, after everything he’s done in his life, all the places he’s been, and he’s still by your side. He takes your breath away sometimes, when he doesn’t even mean to, like now he’s not even awake but he’s so serene and you woke up holding his hand and you felt like your heart might burst. 

“Good morning, darling.” Voice scratchy, he yawns, and you press an affectionate smile against his shoulder, a little embarrassed for still being so sappy after all this time. His free hand is gentle when he coaxes you up, pressing a kiss to your lips, amused and endeared. “What’s gotten you all smiley?” He asked, and you kiss him again.

“I just love you is all.” You tell him, and his smile brightens in the early morning light.

“I love you too.”


	15. lover boy {Ben Hardy}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: imagine Ben is like this completely cool nonchalant guy that gives off this vibe of “I give absolute zero shits” and the borhap boys are kinda intimidated by him a little as they start rehearsing and shooting the film, but then they see him with Y/N and he is the dopiest cuddliest cutest in-love boi they’ve ever laid eyes on. Y/N comes to visit on set and Ben’s all melty and then the boys just roast him the rest of the shoot but they are secretly relieved and obviously happy for him
> 
> Anon asked: I was reading your latest Ben fic (which is amazing btw omg) & instantly got the prompt for a fic based on Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy with either Ben or Rog… just him being hopelessly in love and soft 😍 idk if that prompt interests you at all but I thought it might be a good idea!
> 
> @crystalshines2909 asked: Wait you do fics based on songs? If so could you do a Ben/Roger x reader based on Queens song Good Old-fashioned Lover Boy? That’s my favorite song from them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1514 words. They/Them pronouns for reader. I’m honestly so soft for this. Not a lot of Ben being a cool guy but a lot of him being soft. I cannot get this specific smile out of my head (x)

Filming with Ben was… different. Not different bad, just  _different_. He was a bit quiet, a bit standoffish, and honestly, when the others had first started rehearsing with him, he’d been a bit intimidating. It wasn’t his fault, it’s not like he  _meant_ to come off that way, he was just focused. The others had a bit of a hard time connecting at first, but after a few weeks of rehearsals, and running the gauntlet of Live Aid on the first day, well, it was hard not to be friends after that. He was still quiet, but then again, so was Rami, and Joe could bring the talkative out in anyone if he tried, so it was okay if he was just  _like that_ sometimes.

The crew still thought he was a little intimidating, even when he was in character, charming and easy-going as Roger, with easily established chemistry with the rest of the cast. The 1980s scenes were a little less enjoyable, just due to his character’s growing discontentment, though he made an effort to distinguish himself from his character on the days where he was playing Roger  _especially_ bitchy. 

It was when they were filming one of his lowest points, the  _Hot Space_ album interview, that you decide to stop by the set.

“ _I think that’s a better question for Roger.”_ Rami looked from the crowd over to Ben with a smirk. 

“ _Watch it_.” Ben countered with, voice low, taking a drag on his cigarette, and after a moment, the crowd of extras dressed as reporters started up again with their questions, but you only had eyes for Ben, in his dark blue blazer and skinny, white tie over black shirt; you’d seen pictures of Roger Taylor from this era, and it was a little eerie, the similarities.

As soon as the director called for a break, you made your way to the side of the set, hovering nervously. The moment he spots you from where he’s quietly chatting with Joe, his  _whole face_ lights up, and Joe actually does a double-take at the sight, following his line of sight to where he sees you waving to Ben.

“Sorry, mate, I’ll be back.” He pats Joe on the shoulder as he moves past him, making his way to wrap his arms around you. He smells like menthol cigarettes and you take comfort in the familiarity, hugging him back tightly. “Babe, I didn’t think you’d be coming past today.” He sounds  _delighted_ to have you here, and you, with your knitted sweater and bright smile, seem delighted to be here too.

“I came to see if you wanted to get lunch,” you murmur, smiling a little sadly as  you moved back just a little, enough to look at him with his with his arms still around you as your eyes flick to where Rami was receiving notes from the director, “you probably don’t have a lot of time, though.” Seeing how the thought upset you, he gave you a gentle squeeze.

“How about dinner? We can go somewhere nice.” He offered, stepping back to hold your face gently in his hands. Despite the very public setting, you couldn’t help but lean into the warmth of his touch, smiling at him, nodding gently.

“I’d really like that.” And as you say it, he beams, leaning in to peck you on the lips. After a beat, you can’t help but move away, giggling. “Are you really wearing a wig?” And he snorts out a laugh, moving his sunglasses back onto his face from where they’d been propped up on his head.

“Do you think it suits me?” He asked, shooting for amusingly seductive, the glasses dark enough that all you could see was him raising a single eyebrow.

“Ben, you could wear anything and I’d think you’re the gorgeous.” And at the sound of your sincerity, his amused smile cracked into something more genuine and he ducks his head to hide his blush.

“Hey, who’s your friend?” It’s Joe who interrupts the two of you, closely followed by Gwilym. Stepping back, Ben beams with pride, still a little flush, and he props his glasses back on top of his head.

“This is my partner, Y/N.” Ben’s got an arm around you, his free hand gesturing to you, and realisation blooms across both of the other actor’s faces as you feel yourself become a little flustered, holding out your hand. They introduce themselves, and you find yourself a little star struck, especially when Rami joined the group after he’d finished with the director.

“This is so cool.” You breathed as soon as you were offered a walk around the set, bouncing forward and looking over the little details they included, such as the updated  _Hot Space_ cover with the silhouettes of the actors, which delighted you to no end. “Where can I get one of these?” You asked with a mischievous grin, turning back to look at Ben, who had been trailing behind you, his hands in his pockets, an affectionate smile on his face.

“No way.” He laughed, coming over to stand behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder as the two of you gaze up at poster.

“They really captured your likeness, though.” You tried arguing, voice soft as you leaned your head against his.

“If I come back to the hotel and that’s in our room,” he warns, but doesn’t finish, and you turn to him eyebrows raised.

“You’ll what?” You asked, and he stood to his full height, hands still in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels, giving you an evaluative stare, though he’s also wearing a small smile.

“I’ll do something terrible,” he finally came up with, his smile turning playful, “something absolutely awful, I can tell you that.” He couldn’t even keep a straight face for the full sentence, half laughing at your own amusement.

“Joke’s on you, babe, I’m into that.” You chuckled, voice low, and Ben’s eyes went wide before he snorted, biting back his response for fear of someone on set hearing him, instead stepping forward and burying his soft laughter in the crook of your neck. Pleased, you hugged him back.

The director called to reset the shot, and you stepped away, only now realising the other three main cast members had been watching the two of you, chatting amongst themselves looking a little incredulous.

“Can you come to set, like, every day?” Joe asks, and you open and close your mouth a few times, unable to formulate a real response as the embarrassment makes your heart flutter nervously. 

“What?” You ask, a little dumbfounded, as Gwilym and Rami are already taking their seats on set, smirking as they lean in to talk to Ben.

“It’s weird to see him so… I don’t know.” Joe shrugged, walking past you onto set, and when you turn around, both Gwilym and Rami are looking at you, Rami with his head propped up on his hand with a goofy grin, and Gwilym with a sunny smile and a wave. Ben had his head on the desk, but you could see he was blushing.

When you leave set, you text him that you’re excited for dinner, and when Ben checks his phone between takes, the others read over his shoulder, excited to see what on his phone made him smile so brightly.

“Is that code? Does dinner mean something else?” Joe asked, and Ben tried to swat him away.

“Dinner means dinner, we couldn’t go to lunch so we’re going out tonight.” He explained, still a little flush, unable to hide his smile.

“I think it’s cute.” Rami announced, his chin resting on his hands, giving Ben a sappy smile. “I could just pinch your cheeks.” He added, and Ben gave him a warning look.

“Don’t come near my cheeks, mate.” He said, and Rami just gave a coy shrug, grinning at where Joe and Gwilym were both trying not to laugh.

“No promises.” His smile widens at Ben’s exasperation, but Gwilym is quick to interject with his own two cents.

“Where are you taking them?” He asked, and at Ben’s suspicious look, he held his hands up defensively. “Just wondering.” After a beat, he turned his attention to Joe and Rami, “completely unrelated, how do you guys feel like taking a trip tonight?” 

“I’m not telling you where I’m taking them out to dinner! I just… I just want a nice night out for once, okay? It feels like forever since we’ve been out and I miss ‘em.” He admitted, and the rest of the boys had to bite back their ‘ _awww’_ s.

“Oh God,” Joe groaned, though his expression was fond, “you’re really in love with them, aren’t you.” Ben just flushed, his bashful smile answer enough.

“Seriously though, can we get Y/N back here every day? I love this Ben.” Gwilym added. Ben sighed deeply, resting his forehead on the table, but he couldn’t help laughing at the antics of his friends, heart warm at the prospect of seeing you that night.


	16. convenient {Roger Taylor}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: can you do a roger taylor imagine where you were just one of his flings but you keep coming back to each other and one night you’re at a show and he won’t stop looking at u and finally u confront him about your feelings like bitch i love u and he’s like o shit same but seriously any fluffy roger imagine would be fine cause i love my mans ajdjjskdj
> 
> Anon asked: heyyy, i really enjoyed always been close; i thought it was a beautiful mix of sweet and realistic. i was wondering if you would write something similar for roger with lots of like,, jealousy and elements of pining and sweetness and all that good shit. anywayssss, thank you so much for even reading this, love your work!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3228 words. I realised I had only done one male!reader fic and I’m so sorry, I’ll try to correct that imbalance!! Um, light smut?? So yeah, male pronouns for reader.

Roger had never been shy about his sexuality in any sense of the word; he’d lived his late teenage years through the sixties, practically drenched in rock and roll and counter culture, sexuality, and more importantly sex, had never really been a huge moral issue with him.

And that’s how it starts with you.

You catch his eye from behind the drums at a gig, at least when Tim’s not blocking his way, and you’re hovering by the bar, a drink in hand, laughing at something the person beside you said, and even as he looks away, goes back to concentrating on his drumming, he can’t get your smile out of his head.

You’re not from around here, dragged here by some friends who swear up and down that the band is worth the trip, and you humour them, comfortable at the peripheries with a revolving door of friends keeping you company when they’re not dancing. You’re not much of a dancer, which is unfortunate because you’re friends are right, the band is really quite good, some of their songs really have the crowd moving, but you’re too self conscious in the new environment to even awkwardly bop, like you’d been known to do from time to time. The band is attractive enough, the bassist and guitarist looking like every other pair of rock and roll, uni-band, frontmen you’d seen in the last year, and you can’t see the drummer for the drumkit on the stage, but you’re pretty sure he’s blonde.

“Having a good night?” During the break between sets, you’re pulled out of your own thoughts by a voice beside you at the bar. Looking over your shoulder, you see a guy leaning against the wooden counter top, smirking, and ‘oh no, he’s cute’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. What’s really killing you is probably his choice of open, button-down shirt in the middle of winter, but the doe-eyes and soft-looking blonde hair are also strong contenders.

“Yeah, it’s great!” You respond easily, trying to keep your cool, “actually I’m pretty glad I was dragged out, these guys are good.” And at that, his smile actually brightens.

“Well fuck, you’re nice too, I think I’m obligated to buy you a drink.” And he’s already ordering you a pint as the bartender places his own in front of him; she doesn’t make him pay for either.

“I- sure.” You may not be known for dancing, but you’re also not known to refuse free drinks from attractive strangers. “What do you mean 'too’?” You ask, and he turns back to you, taking a sip of his drink. There’s a moment where he looks you over very pointedly, and you feel your heart beat a little faster as you avert your gaze for a moment.

“You, looking like that, complimenting my band?” After a beat, the bartender puts the drink down between the two of you and the realisation of what he’s said sinks in, “you certainly know your way into a man’s…” and he takes a very long, very pointed sip of his drink, refusing to break eye contact with you, “ _heart_.”

“Your band?” Is all you can think to ask, flustered by his forwardness.

“Roger. I’m the drummer.” And it takes you a moment to realise that it’s not an affirmation, it’s his name, and only because he’s holding his hand out to you.

“Y/N.” You respond, taking his hand to shake it, before accepting the drink in front of you.

“You sticking around for the rest of the show?” He asked, shooting for casual, and you have to laugh a little at that; somehow his complete lack of subtlety was endearing.

“I think I might; maybe I can buy  _you_ a drink after the next set?” You ask, and Roger can’t keep the pleased little smile from his face.

“I drink for free during the show,” he says bluntly, and your heart sinks a little at the gesture being refused, but he holds out his cup, as if for a cheers, “how about after?”

Despite his earlier confidence, he’s gentle, careful even, and it’s about the time he’s going down on you that you realise he probably doesn’t have a lot of experience with guys; he’s obviously got  _some_ experience, it not even that he’s doing a bad job - he’s  _really_  not - he just fumbles here and there, seems a little uncertain at times.

“Good, you’re doing- doing  _really_  good.” You’re a little breathless, and it comes out as a half-moan, hand fisted in his hair.

“Thanks.” He replies automatically, a little awkward, made a lot awkward with your dick in his mouth, and you actually have to let go of him to muffle your laughter. He’s pulling back too, unable to help the laughter that escapes him, a little embarrassed and grinning brightly.

“Come here,” you coax him to you, smiling as you press his lip to yours, moaning against his mouth as his hand takes over where his mouth had left you hard and wanting more despite both your amusements at the situation.

You’ve got no delusions regarding the night; it’s fun,  _Roger’s_ fun, and the next morning you catch a bus back to your home while he’s still mostly asleep. Mostly. When you shift off the bed, pulling on your underwear, he reaches out, fingers grazing down your back, warm, a contrast to the cool morning air.

“Get home safe, okay?” He yawns, and turns over, away from you. You don’t take it personally.

You don’t think about him much after that, actually no, that was a total lie, you don’t  _admit_ you think about him a lot after that, the blonde boy who made you laugh despite only knowing each other for less than a few hours, the drummer with energy to spare and a moan like music. Your friends tease you about the whole situation, nothing too mean, usually just about how you hadn’t wanted to come out, then it turns out you didn’t want to come home, but they’re also the first to suggest going to see the band play when they come to your local pub.

It’s been almost a month since you’ve seen him, and you’re not exactly nervous, just unsure of what to expect. And you’re late, spent too long fretting over what to wear, walking in at the end of the first set.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He grins at you like you’re old friends and something tightens in your chest at the realisation that he does in fact recognise you.

“I should be the one saying that, this is my local pub after all.” You say, thanking the bartender as she passes over your drink.

“Local, huh?” He muses, and you tip your glass towards him in a silent confirmation before taking a sip. He orders his drink with a look on his face like he’s saving that information for later. He doesn’t stick around for the whole break, heads over to a crowd where you can see someone telling an animated story, and you tell yourself you aren’t disappointed.

It turns out the band’s gotten rid of the old bass player, and the man telling the story was the new singer. He’s a much better front man, would be incredibly captivating to watch if you could ever take your eyes off of Roger.

“You have a crush, don’t you.” Your friend’s voice in your ear breaks your trance, and you jump. She laughs, but it’s not unkind.

“ _Yeah_ , I slept with him  _once_ and now I’m  _madly_ in love.” You snorted, voice full of sarcasm, and you looked at her through narrow eyes.

“You gonna hook up again?” She asked, and you made a noncommittal noise, hoping she couldn’t sense how much you wanted to. “Tonight?” Okay, yeah, she could definitely tell. You make another, more grumbly noise of affirmation in the back of her throat. “Is this the second time you’ve ever met up with him?”

“I don’t think the first time counts as meeting up, we met  _at_ the bar for the first time.” You tried to reason, words spilling from you before you can register that you’re digging yourself into a deeper hole. She just looks smug. Looking back at Roger, you see he’s watching your little argument with an amused smirk, and he gives you a wink when he finally has your attention. You both look away, and your friend just gives you a shit eating grin.

He’s more sure of himself this time, lets himself relax more, and there’s that strangely endearing quality about him again, where he’s got you laughing and moaning in the same breath, and he grins like he knows  _exactly_ what he does to you. You’re definitely not complaining. In fact, part of you hopes he never stops looking at you like that.

He’s a late sleeper, it turns out, because when you get up to shower the next morning, you come back to him still there, bundled up and hogging your duvet now that he’s the only one in the bed, expression surprisingly peaceful. Going about your morning routine, you fix yourself breakfast and drop in front of the television, uncertain as to whether or not you should wake him. Usually hook ups just left, sometimes if they were awake you’d make them breakfast too, but Roger was just… still asleep. You didn’t want to disturb him.

Once you’re finished breakfast, you head back into the bedroom to make up your mind about what to do with him, but he’s awake, looking at the ceiling, blinking as if to clear the sleep from his eyes.

“Sorry, I’ll get going in a minute.” He assured, and you shrugged awkwardly.

“I can, I don’t know- do you want breakfast?” You asked, and he turned, frowning a little.

“You don’t have to do that.” He assured, already moving out from beneath the covers, searching around for his clothes.

“Just thought I’d offer; shower’s there if you wanna use it.” You added, and he gave a nod of confirmation, a murmur of thanks. He heads past you into the bathroom, and after he closes the door, you hear the water turn on.

You’re laying on the sofa reading when he emerges, hair still a bit wet, and you say a quick prayer that you don’t blurt out whatever comes to mind, because Christ, he looks so clean and soft and his hair is curling a little at the ends where it’s drying and you’ve never wanted to make a mess of something as badly as you do now.

“Thanks, I’ll see you around.” He grins at you, already heading for the door. You, shooting for casual and not wanting to give away exactly how much you wanted him, didn’t even get up.

“'course you will.” You tell him, and his grin gets a little bit more sincere as he looks over his shoulder at you.

You see him again soon, but not how you wanted to, and definitely not how you expected to. It’s the middle of a pub crawl, almost eleven, and you’re already feelings the booze hit a little too hard. There’s a side door to the pub that you’re grateful to find when the smell of smoke and alcohol is getting too overwhelming, but the moment the door closes behind you and the noise of the pub dims, you realise the alley you’d stepped into is occupied.

After a beat of getting your sluggish mind around the situation, you look over at where the sound is coming from, before it abruptly stops, and you find yourself making direct eye contact with a very startled Roger, blushing, before a pretty brunette stands abruptly from where she’d been hidden out of eyesight behind a trashcan, her cheeks now bright red.

“Hi.” Is what your mind thinks is the best thing to say in this situation, but you don’t give either of them time to answer, before you’re turning, almost falling and wrenching the door open. “I gotta go, don’t let me stop you.” The words spill from your mouth as your heading back into the bar, looking for a drink, your head suddenly feeling far too clear.

It doesn’t hurt, it  _shouldn’t_  hurt.

The next time you hook up, you’re not sure how to feel at first, you’re both a little drunk, and he’s got his hand on your cock in the back of his van between sets. It’s messy and quick, and when you finish, he fishes a box of tissues from the glove compartment.

“Hey, I’m sorry about- about last time.” He works diligently to help you clean yourself up, not looking you in the eyes. “Like last time we saw each other, you know?” It was almost a full five weeks ago, and you can see a fading hickey just beneath the collar of his shirt.

“Don’t worry about it.” You assure him, still a little breathless, head leaning back against the inside of the van. “Hey, hey I can-” And you make to reach for the fly of his pants sitting up once you’re cleaned up, and he moves back, fond smile on his face.

“I’ve still got another set to go.” He smiled gently at you, something about the sight makes your heart melt just a little, despite the situation. “But I’m free after that.”

You’re still seeing a few people here and there, people who aren’t him, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s  _weird_ , you’ve only been with him twice, well three times now, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world. And then it keeps happening. Often. Often enough that you become a regular face around his shared apartment, and yeah sure, sometimes Brian can’t make eye contact with you over breakfast, but that’s technically Roger’s fault.

It’s not every weekend, you still have a life to attend to, sleep to sometimes have amid your busy schedule, but maybe once a fortnight you find yourself heading out to one of  _Smile’s_  gigs ( _and maybe Roger starts telling you their upcoming gigs, hoping to see you there_ ).

It started out as sex, sure, but the moment you hear Roger call out  _'there’s my guy’_  when he spots you sitting at the end of the bar, a little hunched over, when you’d come in late, you realise you might be too far gone for him. It’s Summer now, and he’s wearing a part of red shorts that show off  _far_  too much of his legs, and a tight t-shirt, and your brain stalls for a minute at the sight.

“You can’t call me that.” You hide your flustered, embarrassed,  _fond_ smile in your drink, and he claps you on the shoulder.

“Why not? At this point you’re like our number one fan; you’re  _our_   _guy_.” And he’s beaming, high from the adrenaline of performing, bright and excited for the night.

 _That’s_  not  _what you said,_ your mind wants you to tell him, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. Because you’re  _his_ guy, and you’re fun and convenient and at their gigs, and in his bed even though he’s got scratch marks that you didn’t leave, and underwear in the corner of his room that doesn’t belong to either of you, and this isn’t a crush anymore it’s bigger than that but he’s still got other options he’s trying to follow, and you’ve got a good thing going here so you can’t ruin it.

“You okay?” He’s standing so close now, you hadn’t even realised, so lost in your own thoughts. He’s got his thumb lifting your chin where you’re hunching further over the bar, not looking at him. He’s become careless recently, casually affectionate even while at gigs, and you  _relish_ the attention, forgetting how lonely you’ll feel the next day without those casual touches.

He’s smiling at you like you’re the only thing that matters to him, and you just want to kiss him.

But you think it’ll hurt if you try.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You assure him, and he’s called away by Brian so he can’t dwell on it. You leave during the next set. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t even know he’s leading you on.

It feels like some kind of masochistic torture, dragging yourself to see the shows for a few more weeks, always leaving before the gig ends, always leaving alone. You’re still bright when you’re talking to him, playing pretend like everything’s fine, and he seems none the wiser apart from where you don’t go home together anymore, but the moment you head towards the door, you see girls and guys swoop in on him, like vultures, and you know you’ve made the right decision.

The fourth time you go to leave, you don’t even try and say goodbye; it’s a lull between songs and he sees you putting on your jacket-

“Hey, Y/N, could you hold up I’d like to talk to you after this set, thanks.” He says directly into his microphone, and he expects you to wait, which you do, and he ignores Freddie’s snide remark about the interruption.

“What’s gotten into you, is everything okay? Are we okay?” The two of you step outside of the pub, into the breezy Summer night.

“Dude, there is no ’ _we_ ’.” You cross your arms over your chest, avoiding his gaze, heart already sinking. But then you hear the words spilling from his mouth;

“Of course there’s a ’ _we_ ’, there’s been one ever since you first offered to make me breakfast and let me use your shower and didn’t just kick me out, okay?” He cried, voice strained with a sudden vulnerability you hadn’t heard before. You were silent for a long moment, mouth agape, eyes wide. “But I don’t know how to do that, so fucking around was good enough for me. I don’t know how to do sappy,  _real_  shit.” There’s silence for a  _very long moment_ , and he looks suddenly very nervous.

“I think I’m in love with you.” Is what you hear yourself saying, and relief breaks over his face.

“Thank fucking god; I think I’m love with you too.” And he can barely finish the sentence before you’re kissing him again, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close. It’s almost desperate the way he holds you, like he’s been holding back and now he can finally hold you as tight as he wants, and God if you aren’t feeling the same way.

“I’m glad to see you two kiss and make up,” Brian’s voice comes from the door and you and Roger break apart, but don’t let go of each other, “trust me, Y/N, he’s been insufferable, I almost miss hearing you two go at it at three in the morning-”

“Perv.” You roll your eyes at him, though Roger just smirks.

“But we’ve still got a gig to finish.” And with that he heads back inside. After a beat, you and Roger turn back to each other, amused and a little hesitant.

“I should head back inside, I hear my boyfriend’s in the audience, I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.” And when Roger says that, your heart  _soars_. He’s smirking, but you can’t help your bright, sappy grin.

“Yeah,  _my_ boyfriend’s in the band, I wouldn’t want to miss it.”


	17. of comfort and joy {Ben Hardy}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anons asked: can you write Ben as a dad / imagine staying up late to wrap presents for yours and Ben’s kids (the original prompts have been lost i’m sorry, but this goes out to you guys)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1562 words. So this is my second attempt at this. I lost both the prompts but they weren’t super complicated, and this fills both very nicely.

Ben’s  _so careful_ as he slides the door shut to the kids’ bedroom, the hour just edging past eleven. He winces at the sound of the door latching closed, and he waits for a few moments, listening for the telltale sounds of laughter or the thump of little feet, but all was quiet on the other side of the door, and he let out a sigh of relief, coming to join you where you’d surrounded yourself with gifts that needed to be wrapped at the last minute.

“They’re asleep.” His voice was soft as he rested his head on your shoulder, sitting beside you on the floor with the sofa at your back, legs kicked out in front of him and resting on a stack of assorted labels and gift tags. 

“My hero; how’d you manage that?” You asked wryly, concentrating on where you’re writing ‘ _To Abby, From Santa’_ on a soft package that contained a  _Harry Potter_ robe and wand for your eldest daughter; Ben had been reading them the series as a bedtime story for the past few weeks, and Abby, who was always in awe of her dad, was adamant that she was a Slytherin, just like him.

“Bribery.” Ben yawned, looping one of his arms through yours, tucking himself closer to you. “The boys were okay, I mean, they’re too young to really know what’s going on, but I had to tell Abs that Santa would only write her a letter if she goes to bed on time.” And you laughed softly at that, putting the finishing touches on the label before putting the present onto the pile of wrapped gifts sitting neatly beside you.

“So how many chapters did you end up reading?” You asked, letting yourself relax for the moment, leaning against him, your head resting against his. The light from the Christmas tree showered the whole room in a warm, multi-coloured light, shining off of ornaments and the screen of the TV which was muted, playing an old black and white Christmas movie. 

“Only two; we got up to the Death Day party and she was out.” He sounds so fond when he says it, warm and kind, and he yawns again, letting out a low hum of contentment. He relaxes further against you.

“Honey, there’s still so much wrapping to do, you can’t fall asleep yet.” You say, gently shaking him, and he groans, before he moves to actually turn his head and look at you.

“You’ve been working so hard to get all this ready, can we just relax for a little bit?” He asked, so wide and bright you can see the lights from the tree reflect off of them. 

“Just for a bit.” You could never say no to him.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close to him, and you rest your head on his shoulder, letting yourself relax in his arms. You turn up the volume on the TV enough to be able to hear the end of the movie, but not enough to wake the kids. The heater in the corner of the room has you feeling warm and blissful, even as you watch snow flutter down onto the town outside through the window behind the television. It’s hard to find in the holiday season, but you’re going to hold onto this moment of peace and love with everything you’ve got. 

When the movie ends, Ben gently untangles himself from you, standing, stretched, and turning the TV off.

“I’m gonna make us some hot chocolate, give us a boost to wrap the last of these presents before we head to bed, okay?” He says, and you reach out, taking his hand and squeezing it in wordless thanks. When he squeezes your hand back, smiling fondly, you can feel your heart flutter like it did when you’d first started dating all those years ago.

“You’re so good to me.” You murmur over the lip of your mug, eyes falling closed as you bring the warm drink close to your chest, inhaling the aroma of chocolate that rose from it. Ben pets your knee softly, and when you open your eyes, he’s sitting across from you, legs crossed, one hand on your knee and the other holding his own mug. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world, haloed by the tree, expression so full of unbridled love and affection it’s almost overwhelming. 

“’cos I know how lucky I am to have you.” He says, and it’s moments like this that remind you why you married him in the first place. Gently, you take his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles.

By the light of the Christmas tree, the two of you go about wrapping presents for your friends and family. The majority, of course, are for your kids; wrapping them at the last minute was easier than worrying that they’d tear into them before Christmas, or try and sneak a peak. Abby, the oldest, almost seven and forever a daddy’s girl, loved anything Ben did, also Frozen; Micha was four and has never met a robot he didn’t want to marry, though he didn’t understand what the word meant when he announced it on a daily basis while holding hands with a transformer action figure; Roan had just turned two and liked the colour red.

“Do you think Abs is old enough for a present hunt?” Ben asks where he’s sorting stocking stuffers. Looking up, you’re confused, and he looks a little shocked, “you’ve never had a present hunt?” When you shook your head, his mouth split into a nostalgic grin. “We had them when I was a kid; you hide a series of clues around the house and the kids follow the clues to find a hidden present.” His laugh was fond, which turned to a thoughtful hum as he reminisced, “I rode my bike all around the neighbourhood one year, dad really went all out.” 

“Maybe not around the neighbourhood.” You grinned, and his whole face lit up when he met your gaze. He’s up after that, so giddy he’s practically bouncing as he swans around the house with the sticky tape, writing and hiding clues as he went, ending up with Abby’s gift stashed in the back of the pots and pans cupboard next to the oven. When he comes back, he tapes one last clue to a bauble, hanging it at the back of the Christmas tree, proclaiming it to be the starting point. After that, he settles back in, filling the stockings that hung over the mantle, and helping you wrap the last of the presents.

When everything’s done, you feel the exhaustion settling into your bones, and you take a long moment to stretch. All the presents are wrapped, sitting neatly beneath the tree, and the heater’s been turned off, and all that’s left to do is put all the wrapping paper, tape, and labels that you’d commandeered for the occasion.

“You head on to bed, I’m just writing this letter for Abby.” He said, looking up from where he was leaning over a notebook, to see you waiting for him in the door. With a soft smile, you nod, and head to your bedroom, quickly getting changed into your pyjamas and sliding into bed. He follows not long after, but instead of getting changed, he sits onto the bed beside you, grinning and holding out a neatly wrapped box with your name on it.

“Merry Christmas, love.” He says gently, and you look from the box to where he’s smiling at you, nervous and excited. You’re lost for words, heart overwhelmed with love as you start to unwrap the present.

It’s a photo frame, silver, with metal vines decorating the outside, and space enough for two photos. The photo on the left is from when you first visited him on the set of X-Men Apocalypse, probably taken by a crew member. You’d never seen the photo before, but you know it’s the two of you; he’s got his arms around you, the two of you all but nose to nose and so blindingly  _happy._ He’s in costume, wearing a leather jacket with his hair long, curled and teased, and you’re pushing a small strand behind his ear. The two of you are so wrapped up in each other, and he’s grinning at you like there’s literally nowhere in the world he’d rather be than in your arms.

The photo on the right is from your wedding day, in the same position as the other photo, his arm around you, you with a hand holding his cheek. It’s as if you’re not even aware of the photographer, blissful and elated and  _in love_. 

“This was so long ago.” Voice soft and awed, you look up from the wedding photo to see him looking at you with that exact same smile you remember so clearly from when the two photos were taken; the smile that made you feel like the only person in the world. “I love you, Ben.”

“I love you too; there’s no-one else I’d rather by my side to raise our family with.” He says, and you think you’re about to cry, so overwhelmed at the sincerity and sweetness that it’s all you can do to lean forward and kiss him.


	18. our love was made for movie screens {Rami Malek}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @missieluvsmurder asked: In response to asking for ideas of 5+1, reader is suuuuper shy and smol so its 5 times they kissed you or PDA and the one time you took initiative, (maybe like happiness outweighed the shyness) -Mandi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2961 words. Actor!Reader, also the reader isn’t necessarily smol physically, because I literally don’t know who’s reading this so I wouldn’t be able to say anyways, but they are quite introverted. Also, Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 2 is my favourite Twilight movie and you’ll pry it from my cold, dead hands. I also looked up the names of the makeup artists for the Twilight Saga for this fic. They/them pronouns for reader, and also not technically a 5+1 fic but I hope you like it.

Rami isn’t needlessly extroverted like a lot of actors, or well, his public persona, like his actual personality, isn’t needlessly extroverted like a lot of the facades those in the entertainment industry wear. Not that you didn’t  _love_ extroverted actors, you’d worked with more than you can even remember, a majority of actors  _are_ extroverted, it’s a tough business to get in to when you’d rather not be networking or going to parties at all. So Rami’s an interesting mix, an interesting character, if you were being honest; well spoken, polite, and charming, of course, he’s a ball of creative energy when he needs to be, but he’s got a very quiet soul. It’s one of the reasons you were drawn to him in the first place. 

You’d actually met on the set of  _Twilight_ , of all things; you were playing one of the Cullen’s contacts from afar, who didn’t actually get any speaking lines, you just had to look pretty and imposing and wear the contacts they gave you. Easy enough. You’re convinced the makeup team is comprised of witches, with how unnecessarily sharp they manage to make your cheekbones look. 

“I know, the contacts are a little unnerving, right?” You hear a chuckle from the door of the makeup trailer, which interrupts you admiring yourself in the mirror, and there, with a smile as bright as sunshine, is the kid from  _Night at the Museum_ , the one who plays the hot mummy, whose name you forgot the instant you learned it at the read-through a few months ago even though you knew the two of you would be sharing at least two scenes.

“No I-” for a moment you’re flustered, just gesturing at the line of shimmer along your cheekbone, beneath your eye, “the highlighter.” The contacts didn’t really bother you at this point, you’d done a few B-movies based on young adult novels; once you’d played a werewolf or vampire in love with your best friend who’s in love with the main girl or guy, depending on the type of franchise, you’d played them all. Honestly you were excited to not be forced into a love triangle this time; you just got to watch it unfold. Or tie up, as it were. It was the final movie, after all.

He takes a few steps towards you to admire the makeup artist’s work before one of the assistants hands him a contact lens case, instructing him to put them on so they could get to work. 

“They did a really good job,” he calls from where he’s leaning against the sink, putting in the bright red contacts, “Joann, can you make me look that pretty?” He called, and makeup artist in question gave you a fond smile and a chuckle as you suddenly found yourself at a loss for words.

“That’s the plan, Rami.” She calls back -  _Rami, that’s his name_ , you try to remember that for later, and he comes out of the bathroom, his eyes watering just a little as he dabs at them with a paper towel, the contacts now firmly in place. An assistant sticks their head in the trailer and lets you know that they’re ready for you in hair. 

“If you wanna run lines or anything, my trailer’s always open.” He offers, and you go to rebuff him, explain how you didn’t have any lines to begin with, but he frowns, his eyes closed where they’re applying primer. “Metaphorically speaking, it’s closed at night, and I share it with Omar, and he likes his peace sometimes, so other than that.” You hesitate for a moment at his earnest offer, and, with the smallest of smiles, offer up an ‘ _I’ll see how I go’_ in return.

The two of you actually grow quite close; you spend a lot of time in his trailer since you technically don’t have one, given the size of your role, and you’re tired of hovering around craft services when no-one has any use for you. It turns out Omar’s not actually around a lot, and sometimes Rami’s busy for a lot longer than you are, and the runners learn to look for you in his trailer. 

You’re in a lot of group scenes, with some very high profile actors, not that you weren’t well known, but you also weren’t Dakota Fanning, you know? So sometimes amid the shouting, the other actors making small talk or going over lines between takes, you find yourself standing awkwardly over to the side, just people watching more than anything else, trying not to see too out of place, and sometimes he joins you. The first thing he always asks is how you’re doing, and then how you think the take went. Sometimes you answer with words, sometimes just with a shrug or two, and he shrugs in return, sometimes talking in a way that doesn’t require an answer, for which you’re thankful, and sometimes he just joins you in your people watching.

He tells you you’re not stressful to be around on set, says that it’s a rare thing in this industry with such a high budget. 

He’s careful about where he asks you out, because it’s the wrap party, and you only went at his assurance that there would be quieter, outside areas and private rooms that you could escape to if things became too overwhelming. He finds you on the balcony on the floor above the actual party, and doesn’t even question how you got there. 

When you say yes to his offer, he looks absolutely delighted, and honestly a little relieved.

The thing about Rami is that, despite his quiet nature, he’s very physically affectionate, it seems like he’s always got a hand on his male costars in interviews and on red carpets, their shoulders, arms, leaning against them, and with you it was no different.

The two of you show up to the premiere of  _Breaking Dawn Part 2_ dressed to the nines, your arm in his, and when people start calling your names on the red carpet, he slides an arm around your waist out of instinct pulling you close. You were never one for PDA, and though this was fairly low on the list of things that could be considered scandalous, the media’s attention on your new relationship made your skin crawl.

“You’re doing great.” Rami murmurs to you through his smile, lips by your ear, and you just smile out at the sea of flashing cameras, putting your arm around him for support.

“Red carpets make me feel weird.” You muttered once you’d survived the red carpet. “Just wait, tomorrow I’m gonna be in a ‘ _who wore it better’_ section next to some more famous starlet from the nineties, and some tabloid’s going to mention me in a footnote of their article about the premiere, only to call me a nobody who’s with you for attention.” You mumble, and he actually stops, turning to face you. 

“First of all; you wore it better, I don’t care who it’s up against, that outfit is ridiculous, no-one should look that good.” He tells you with complete sincerity, and when you try to duck your head to hide your embarrassed smile, he lifts your chin, making sure you look at him, he slides an arm around your waist in the relative security of the cast and crew in the foyer, “and secondly; none of that other stuff matters, especially since you could have  _definitely_ picked someone more famous than me to be with, if you are with me for attention -  _one_ , cruel - and  _two_ , not the best choice you could have made.” He mused, and that gets you to crack a smile, the tension in your chest easing as he plants a kiss on your lips before the two of your head into the theatre.

It turns out someone had managed to capture the moment in a blurry photo graph, and the next day, Twilight blogs across the internet were buzzing with speculation about a cut romance between your characters. Honestly, not the worst gossip in the world.

You find yourself on set for _Mr Robot_  a lot when you’re not busy with your own projects, he’s so fascinating to watch perform, especially since Elliot is such a different character to Rami himself. They’re both quiet and introspective, but that’s about where the similarities end. 

You’ve got a lull between films while he’s shooting Season 2, and though he’s adamant that you shouldn’t hang around set just for his sake, he does appreciate your company when you decide to stay. Sometimes when a scene is especially intense, you’ll remove yourself, partly because you don’t want your presence interfering, and partly because you are actually invested in the show, and sometimes you like not being spoiled for it. Those are the times he appreciates you most. When he can come back to his trailer, emotionally exhausted, and you’re there, sometimes asleep on the sofa, sometimes reading or playing on your phone, and he just wraps himself up in you, still wearing the makeup that makes him look sleep deprived, though at times it’s less makeup than you think, those are the moments that reassure him that you love him. 

It’s not that you don’t tell him you love him, in fact, you tell him often, you’re very verbally affectionate, which surprised him considering how quiet you usually were. Every time you tell him, his heart warms, but  _his_ primary language of love had always been physical, and when he’s feeling tired and introspective, and like he just needs someone to run fingers through his hair, you’re there without fail.

However, you haven’t gotten much better at social events. You’re  _okay_ at them because you have to be, but your awkwardness tends to shine in interviews, especially when you’re stuck with boisterous cast-mates, and you feel like the odd one out. You’re filming a load of interviews for a press junket for a movie which you’d managed to score the lead for, a pretty generic high-school rom-com with a few twists along the way - the industry was fucked, you’d been playing high schoolers for far too long - when Rami drops by to see how you’re going. In a break between interviewers, he wraps you up in a hug when he sees how tired you look, and you rest your head on his shoulder. The other cast members wave to him, all grinning brightly and talking amongst themselves, Rami’d spent enough time on set to get to know them, even becoming friends with the actress playing your love interest. 

He didn’t say anything, just let you breathe deeply and takes the moments you were with him to centre yourself and relax. He doesn’t actually say anything, just holds your face gently and gives you a warmly reassuring kiss. One of your costars wolf whistles, and you remember your company, and you suddenly feel  _very_ out of place.

“Sorry,” Rami says, but you just brush it off with an embarrassed smile, assuring him he had nothing to apologise for. “Alright, but still, you’ve had a long day; don’t worry about dinner tonight, I’ll make your favourite.” He promised, and you tried to protest, it  _was_ your night after all, but he insisted, claiming it to be what you deserved. Part of you wants to cry, but its mostly from the exhaustion, and you’re pretty sure Rami can tell, because he gives you a careful pat on the shoulder, as to not set any of the others off again, before he leaves.

You liked radio interviews the best, a fact you’d decided a very long time ago. Though you’re not usually a chatty person, you can present quite the pitch for whatever movie or show you were a part of, when pressed. This, however, was not a radio interview.

“So you two are together in real life,” the interviewer leans forward in his chair, smile sharp, and he watches you fidget as if he enjoys your discomfort. You and Rami had been cast as lovers in an indie film about two friends road-tripping across America, trying to relive some of their favourite memories after their third mutual friend has passed, and falling in love along the way. It was set to premiere at the Sundance Film Festival.

“Yes, that’s right.” Rami agrees with a bright smile, taking your hand where you’re sitting next to him on the squishy interview sofa. “We’ve been together for… five years? Five or six years?” He mused, looking at you for confirmation.

“How long ago was  _Twilight_ released?” You asked, and the interviewer made an almost delighted noise at the question.

“That’s right, this isn’t the first time you’ve been on screen together, but it is the first time you’ll be playing a couple; was it easier or harder to play against your real life partner?” He asked, and finally you spoke up.

“We were initially warned against it by friends and family, people were worried the pressure might get too much for us,” your expression soured at the memory, before you turned to look at Rami, who was gazing at you with nothing but affection in his eyes, and you gave his hand a squeeze, “but it’s easy to fall in love with your best friend on screen when you’re already in love with them off.” And the interviewer couldn’t help but coo at that.

“I’m also very fortunate; Y/N’s very talented, I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed working with them.” Rami grins, and you feel yourself getting flustered under his endeared gaze, and you pressed your forehead to his shoulder to hide your grin. He just laughs, loud and bright, and wraps his arm around you to pull you close.

“Speaking of enjoying yourselves; so we’ve been told that the movie gets a little hot and heavy at times, it really works to earn that R rating, was that embarrassing, to share those private moments with so many people?” He asked, but you were quick to counter.

“Well the sex on screen isn’t real, and it’s not like we haven’t done this before,” after a beat, you’d realised what you’d said and how it had sounded, as had both the interviewer and Rami, who burst out laughing, “in  _both_ senses; there’s a trust that you need with your scene partner to be so vulnerable with them, which obviously we have,” and you don’t back down from your statement, and you force yourself not to be embarrassed, “but this is also like, our job, so you’ve gotta walk that fine line between ‘ _this is the love of my life’_ and ‘ _this is my coworker and I’m surrounded by all my other coworkers I gotta keep it professional’_.” 

It’s Rami’s turn to be flustered and sappy as he pressed his lips to your shoulder, a blush creeping up his cheeks. After a beat, he turns resting his head on your shoulder as he goes back to addressing the interviewer.

“I wanna go on record as saying, despite how comfortable the back of that Kombi may look, we were crammed in there with like, three lights, a camera  _and_ a camera man, and sometimes the director; it’s not nearly as easy to find something romantic or sexy when there’s three PAs holding fans so you don’t collapse under the heat of the lights on a Californian night in the middle of Summer.” He snickers, and you can’t help but agree, making a face at the memory.

When he drags you to the  _Bohemian Rhapsody_ premiere, you’re pretty good at it by now, at least, when he’s by your side. Usually you were able to drown out the incessant questions yelled at you by the hoards of photographers, though some of the interviewers along the red carpet could be a tad invasive.

“Rami, can you tell us about the rumours regarding your co-star, Lucy?” One woman in a very expensive looking dress asked, shoving a microphone in your now-fiance’s face. You were still beside him, your arm looped in his. You’d heard the rumours on repeat since filming wrapped, and you were sick of them at this point, as was Rami. You threw your usual reservedness out the window when he turned to look at you with raised eyebrows. Pulling him in for a kiss, you made sure your engagement ring was clearly visible to the camera as you held Rami’s face. He gave a contented hum, smiling against your lips, and when he pulled away, he was grinning at you, and you gently ran your thumb along his cheek bone before you turned to look over your shoulder at the camera.

“Lucy and I are just friends, the rumours about me leaving Rami for her are just blatant lies.” You told the camera seriously, well aware that there were no such rumours circulating, and they managed to catch Rami’s bright, incredulous laugh as the two of you, hand in hand, left the reporter bewildered and bright red with embarrassment.

“That should get them off our back for what, two weeks?” You tucked yourself closer to Rami’s side, grinning as Joe waved brightly to you both as he was doing another interview further along. 

“You still find ways to surprise me.” The grin was so clear in Rami’s words that you felt your heart flutter at the sound, even after all these years. When you look to him, he’s smiling at you with that same love and adoration he’d held since he’d first asked you out all those years ago. He definitely still had that same quiet soul you’d grown to love when you’d first met, but there’s something so comforting and bright about how loudly his heart could love.


	19. any time {Brian May}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @brianandthemays asked: Hello! I’m having a rough week and I absolutely love your imagines! So I was wondering if I could get a fluffy piece with Brian where the reader is sad/disappointed and he comforts her. Thank you!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1343 words. This is for me, @hysterical-qween, @brianandthemays who requested it, and everyone else who wants Brian to hug and tell them it’s. I hope it’s okay, I literally fell asleep twice at my computer because I started writing it at midnight. Anyways it’s 4am, good night, I hope tomorrow is better.

It’s Saturday, or it  _was_  Saturday like half an hour ago, but you’ve been staring at the TV playing some b-grade raunchy action movie too explicit for the hours regular people keep, and your hands are shaking. You’ve been home for what feels like ten minutes, but is closer to two and a half hours, and there’s a weight in your chest that won’t go away, an overwhelming-  _sadness? Disillusionment? Anxiety? Distress?_ You can’t quite put your finger on it.

“ _Hello?_ ” When Brian answers the phone, he sounds groggy and annoyed.

“Hey, sorry it’s so late.” There’s a slight shake in your voice and his tone shifts immediately. 

“Darling, is that you? It’s almost one, what’s wrong?” He’s so gentle, so concerned, and there’s a hollow feeling in your chest that the sound of his voice goes a ways to healing.

“I-” Your words catch in your throat, and maybe it’s that you can hear him but he’s not there with you; you feel touch starved, needy and unashamed to want him with you. “I’m so sorry,” you start, and you can feel tears already stinging your eyes as you speak, “can I ask you a huge favour?”

“Anything,  _anything_.” He assured, you ,and you sniffled loudly. “You know what, I’m coming over.” He preempts your request, taking the words right out of your mouth, and the tears begin to fall.

“Thank you.” You manage, and you can’t move, muscles wound tight with anxiety and sadness, holding the phone to your ear.

“I love you; I’ll be there soon.” 

In between breaths you feel like you’re drowning in your own emotions, as though sadness has you in a choke hold. Overwhelmed, you’re lost in the white noise of the television for what feels like an  _eon_ , time rushing past, a blur where it had felt like mere heartbeats only minutes before. There’s a knock at your door, and you finally uncurl yourself from your sofa, joints sore where you’ve been in the same position for hours, unmoving, barely feeling. 

Opening the door, you see him there with his sweater on backwards and concern in his eyes. He moves forward, wrapping you up in his arms as your silent sobs become more audible. There, in the doorway, at one in the morning, you’re crying in his arms. That hollow feeling in your chest, the way you’d been aching to just hold him, you can feel it slowly disappearing, and you hold him tighter.

Apologies tumble from you as he guides you back into the apartment, closing the door behind himself, one arm still carefully holding you. You’re sorry it’s so late, that he came over, that you’re just being silly, that-

“Don’t apologise.” He admonishes, sincere. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he moves the two of you into your bedroom, his voice gentle as he assures you; it’s never too late, he’ll always be there, you’re not being silly. He sits you down against the headboard, and you wriggle beneath the covers as he climbs in beside you. 

“If it’s got you this upset, it’s not silly.” When he pulls you close to him, wraps his arm around you and lets you rest your head on his chest, you feel for the first time since you’ve gotten home, that perhaps the whole world wasn’t against you. “Darling, anything that upsets you is never silly.” 

His tone doesn’t leave room for argument, and you know he means it with his whole heart. There’s something unequivocally reassuring about that. Already you can feel your stuttering, distressed heartbeat calming down as you clutch at his sweater.

“I’m sorry-” you start, and he quietly tells you to stop apologising, “I’m just- I don’t know what came over me, I just had a shit time at work and I just-” Pressing your lips together, you can’t even continue, words stuck behind a lump in your throat. Brian doesn’t press you, just rubs his hand up and down your arm in a comforting rhythm, occasionally pressing his lips to the top of your head.

“I’m just stuck in this dead-end job,” you finally spit, working through your sadness to the anger you held towards the situation, “and I have  _no idea_ what I’m doing with my life; I feel like I’m never going to achieve anything or do anything meaningful and- Brian I’m so scared, and I feel  _so useless_.” You admitted, pressing your forehead to his chest, trying to take some deep breaths as he rubbed circles into your back.

As soon the words are out, and Brian’s still holding you close, you feel the anxiety disappearing, slow of course, but there’s a gentle peace that begins to fill you now you’ve articulated the thought that had been haunting you. It’s so cathartic, being able to finally admit that, but as soon as you do, you’re filled with an uncertainty, an irrepressible urge to apologise for dumping that all on him. You’re not expecting a response, it’s a lot to hear in one go.

“You’re not useless, darling, even just for the fact that you’ve made so many people smile.” Voice soft, he punctuates it with a kiss to the top of your forehead, and you know if he continues like this then you’re going to cry again, but for a very different reason. “There’s no rush to figure out the over-arching plan for your life, sweetheart, and-” he paused, and when you looked up, eyes red rimmed but heart already growing warm, he’s giving you a curious look; “would you like me to tell you how little anything matters to the universe, or how much you matter to me?” 

“I don’t care, I just need you to tell me it’s going to be okay.” Voice a whisper, you think you can see the moment your words melt his heart. 

“Everything you do is meaningful; every time you speak, everything you do, it all goes to making the world a little bit of a better place,” he continues, even as you try to protest, “I’ve seen you at your worst, dear, believe me, I’d rather spend the rest of my life with them than anyone else at their best. One day the world will see how incredible you are, or even if you see how incredible I think you are.”

“You’re gonna make me cry.” You pouted, but he reached down to pull the duvet further up the both of you, and you snuggled in tighter.

“Sorry, I was trying to stop that.” He half laughed, and you hummed thoughtfully, shifting to a more sitting position so you can rest your cheek on his shoulder.

“Good cry.” You assured him, and he nodded with a laugh of understanding, before you looked up, the movement prompting him to turn, and the two of you shared a sweet kiss. Pulling back, he wiped the tear tracks from your cheeks, smiling so fondly at you that you could feel your heart growing warm, earlier sadness still inching away, leaving much faster when you see him smiling at you like that.

“Thank you, I really needed to hear that.” You tell him, voice gentle. “I really needed you here.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, and you settle back in against him.

“I’ll always be here.” He assures. He starts to quietly recount how captivated he was, seeing you in the audience that first time the two of you had met. It’s one of your favourite stories, and you would never get over the way your breath would catch when he says ‘ _I’d wanted to see the stars for as long as I could remember, imagine my surprise having you right there in front of me’._ As he speaks, you can feel yourself grow tired, with him still gently rubbing your back, his firm heartbeat steady with your head against his chest.

You fall asleep to the sound of him humming a melody you don’t recognise. Years later, you will come to recognise it as the song he writes for you.


	20. you may not be blood, but you'll always be family {Jim "Miami" Beach} (Platonic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re a singer with EMI, just trying to get your solo career off the ground, but it’s been a bad night, and sometimes you just need a hug from your lawyer, friend, and pseudo-father-figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1175 words. Wow my desire for Miami to tell me he’s proud of me really jumped out, huh. Anyways literally no-one asked for this but it came to me and like with all the other stories that aren’t prompted, I had to write this and get it out of my head so I can immediately forget I ever wrote it. (i tend to do that, honestly) anyways, miami loves you like he’s ya dad and is proud of you, the self indulgent fic. (also, i know it’s usually used a romantic song, Somewhere Out There - specifically the cover done by Donald Glover and Danny Pudi in season 1 of Community - just makes me soft and content and it’s what i was listening to the entire time i wrote this)

When Miami answers the phone at half past one in the morning, and all he hears on the other end of the line is your gentle sobbing, his irritation is quickly replaced with concern.

“Y/N?” He knows it’s you the moment you ask his name, voice trembling. He asks where you are, and you tell him that you’re at the recording studio, that you’d really appreciate being picked up.

You hadn’t been making music for long; you’d started out as a backup singer for a solo artist, and it was only when a few of your friends and family, Miami included, told you to look at a career of your own, that you followed their advice. It wasn’t as if you were a big name in the industry, quite the opposite in fact, the only reason you were even halfway connected to any big names was the fact that Miami,  _then known as just Jim Beach_ , took a shine to you when you were first signing your contract.

That was a few years ago, however, and by now, Jim had fit into his role of your pseudo-father-figure without hesitation. It was hard, your own family didn’t know how to deal with your career, and your friends your age had their own problems to deal with and didn’t need your teary, early morning calls when you had someone you knew would pick you up without question.

He doesn’t wait in the car when he arrives, doesn’t just honk the horn and wait to see you come out of the building, he gets the security guard to let him in, and he makes his way to the studio you’d been recording in, and hugs you as soon as he sees you. His expression is serious and concerned, no hesitation as he moves to sit you on the sofa, rubbing comforting circles across your back.

“It’s alright.” He assures quietly, his voice firm, as if daring the universe to fuck up this moment for you and face the consequences. You’re past crying, have been past crying for about ten minutes, five minutes after you got off the phone with him. Hugging him back, however, face pressed into the sweater he’d pulled on over his pyjama shirt, you can’t help but tear up a little.

“Is this from overworking, or did something happen?” When he asks, his voice is gentle but clinical, not wanting to dance around your emotions. It takes you a moment to clear your throat, sniffling before you speak, words a little muffled where you had your forehead against his shoulder.

“A bit of both,” you admit, and he hugged you a little tighter, not pushing you for further explanation, giving you the time you need to order your thoughts, “one of the executives came by to watch me record,” you murmur, voice catching a little at the still very fresh memory, “and he had some… less than kind feedback for me.” Finally you pull out of Miami’s hug, throwing yourself back onto the sofa in exasperation, wiping your eyes, a little infuriated that the memory provoked such a reaction from you. “And you know -  _you know_ \- I try not to let shit like this get to me, but it was so late, and there’s just been some horrible stuff in magazines recently. I feel so stupid right now.” You huffed, pouting despite yourself.

“Who?” Miami asks, getting up from the sofa and making his way to the sound desk, searching around for a pen and paper.

“Who  _what_?” You asked, faintly confused, and he gives you a thoughtful look. When he comes back to sit beside you, he’s poised and ready to write.

“Who said those things about you?” He asked, and when you respond with a first name, hesitating before you explain that you don’t know his last name, just know him by sight, Miami asks you to describe him.

“Executives aren’t allowed in the recording studio; it’s in your contract,” he explains, jotting down the notes you give him on the man. His words give you reason to pause, taken aback.

“That’s- when I was working with-” you try to protest, but he looks up at you, notepad balanced on his knee.

“It’s in  _your_ contract; it’s in all my clients’ contracts. It contaminates the integrity of the artist’s work.” He explains, before looking back down, “it’s blatant unprofessionalism, you wouldn’t invite a critic to a recording session, it’s an unfinished product and he had no right to give his unsolicited opinion like that.” There’s a sudden rush of affection that you feel as you watch him jot down a few more notes.

“But what if he’s right, what about the magazines-” You try, but he’s tearing off the page definitively, folding it up to hold tight in his hand.

“Music’s always been subjective, and critics have always been harsh; I happen to think you’re a lovely singer.” And with that he stands, offering you his free hand. “Let’s get you home, it sounds like it’s been a long day for you.” He muses, and there’s tears in your eyes again, but for a very different reason.

“You’ll be alright?” He asks, stopped outside of your house, looking up at the door with a little bit of doubt.

“Dude, I’m an adult.” You tell him, and he fixes you with a fond smile.

“I know,” his voice is surprisingly soft, “I just worry about you,” and when you go to protest, his lips twist into an amused grin as he speaks over you, “even though-”

“Even though I’ve told you that you don’t need to!” You reiterate a statement you’d said once or twice in the past, but he never seems to listen, and part of you is glad he doesn’t.

“Good night, Y/N, and take care, alright?” He asks as you’re unclipping your seatbelt, and you nod obligingly.

“Of course, you too,” but as you open the door to step out, you take the moment to look back at him, where he’s watching you with a faintly expectant smile, “I really do appreciate you, Miami.”

“Thank you, Y/N, you know I’m always here for situations like this.”

He’s not really your dad, but you know as he drives you home, as he helps you release your new EP, as you wave goodbye to the executive who it turns out had been harassing a lot of artists whose contracts he didn’t personally have a hold on, you know Miami’s proud of you. 

When he leaves EMI with Queen, he doesn’t leave you behind. You go through scandals and heartbreaks and more PR crisises than any one person should, but he’s always in your corner, picking you up from parties, pubs, even out of the gutter a few times, and he does it without complaint. It’s hard to trust in this industry, to know who wants you for your name and fame, but the years and the fair weather friends come and go, but the sun always sets behind you on Miami Beach, and with the man himself, he’s always there to back you up.


	21. it hurts because it has to {Ben Hardy}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve always been there for Ben, like part of the wallpaper, his first kiss, his first flatmate, his first love, though it might be too late by the time he realises that last one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3107 words. Male!Reader, angst, came to me suddenly. this was gonna have a very different ending but it’s 6am. maybe i’ll do a part 2, but no promises.

The movie star never dates the boy next door.

The  _next door neighbour_ might date the boy next door, by that you mean to say his best friend since the age of seven, the boy who’s become his form’s Token Gay by fifteen. First of all, that’s so reductive in so many ways; you kiss a few guys and everything thinks they have you all figured out. Secondly ‘ _token’_ discounts so many first hand accounts you have to the contrary,  _not_ that you’d out your classmates like that, it’s just that those in glass houses should  _not_  throw stones. 

Ben himself has always been more than forthcoming about his opinions on the relative fitness of several footballers, and movie stars, and ‘ _yeah, Hugh Jackman could probably get it’._ You’ve also heard him say the same thing about Halle Berry, so maybe he’s just watched X-Men one too many times. The point is, you’re not entirely sure how you got here, especially since Ben’s ‘ _definitely, actually got a crush on that girl in the year above, you know the one, she’s blonde; hangs out by the smokers tree on the edge of the field, you’ve definitely seen her before’._ But he’s never kissed  _anyone_ , and what if he’s  _bad at it._ He needs  _help. Practice._

“Why would you ask  _me_? You know Kelly’s always giving you the eye in music, I’m sure she’d give her left tit to snog you.” You’re flopped in a beanbag in his room, both playing Crash Bandicoot, still in your school uniforms. The sun beats down on him through the window, sunset painting him gold where he’s sprawled out on his bed, eyes trained on the video game. Sometimes he’s so pretty it hurts; if you had a bit of thing for him, for the way the his hair catches the light, the way it makes his eyes sparkle, it was  _purely_ aesthetic, you told yourself.

“If I even  _looked_ at her, she’d be planning our wedding; come on, dude, this is embarrassing, just do me this one favour,” he’s actually pleading a little now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him. You know  _why_ he’s asking; you’ve lived next door to each other for most of primary school, and have been best friends since you both went to the same high school, he trusted you, and more importantly, you knew what it was like to kiss another guy. 

“You know kissing girls is different, right?” You pause the game, and Ben finally looks at you, eyes wide, as if he’s surprised you’re even humouring him like this. The cursor on the screen is spinning idly, and you watch it with intent. “I’m happy to do this for you, but I gotta warn you, kissing one of your mates is different to kissing someone you like.”

“I like you well enough.” He tried, somehow obtuse enough to miss the point; your heart twinges just a little, even as you roll your eyes.

“Well then you should be asking  _me_ out, rather than what’s-her-name.” Sarcasm dripped from your words, making light of the situation as you finally look at him, watching him turn pink with realisation.

“Okay, alright, yeah not gonna happen; I see what you mean.” He mumbled, and you clapped a hand to your chest.

“Alright, fuck you too, Jones, I see how it is.” Voice alight with mock indignation, you hold you offended expression for a moment longer than necessary, before it shifts to a grin and you both break into laughter. You struggle from the beanbag, sitting up by the headboard of Ben’s bed, relaxed as you watch him sit up, and the laughter dies down.

“You don’t tell anyone about this, got it?” He warns, and he’s put his hands on your shoulders. It’s hard not to laugh, but then you think he might chicken out. 

“Of course not,” after a beat, you grin, “what are friends for?” His whole face scrunches up at that, sudden discomfort rising at the phrase, but he leans in anyways. He comes in too fast, and his nose smacks into yours, and you swat him away with one hand, eyes watering as you hold your nose and the pain subsides with the other. “ _Jesus Christ_ , it’s a kiss, not a tackle!” You cry, and you wipe your eyes with the bottom of your school shirt.

“ _Fine_ ,” he huffed, sitting back, crossing his legs as he avoids your gaze, “show me then, if you’re such an expert.” 

You scoot closer to him, cross legged also; your knees touch his, it’s weird, and there’s too much space between you. You tug him to his feet, and though he’s confused, he complies easily, frowning, and now it feels like you’re too close. You don’t move away, he’s blushing despite his frown, and he’s looking so intently at you, as if studying your every move.

“Don’t frown.” You instruct as you reach out to awkwardly cup his jaw with one hand. He smacks it away.

“Don’t make this weird.” He frowns deeper, and you step away, throwing your hands into the air as you turn back to the waiting video game.

“ _Fine_ , kiss yourself for all I care.” You announce, but he catches your hand, and he sighs with defeat when you turn back. “Don’t frown when you kiss her, got it?” You amend, stepping back towards him, and the mention of her name makes him brighten up a little. 

This time, you rest your hands on his shoulders, and you’re the one to lean in, slower this time, pressing your lips to his quick and chaste, and after a moment you realise he’s not kissing you back and you move away.

“You can’t just  _do nothing_!” When you say it, he opens his eyes enough to level a glare at you.

“Mate, I told you not to make this weird.” But he’s not stepping back either.

“You’re the one who asked for my help! I’m trying to-” But he grabs your face on impulse, crushing his lips to yours. It’s a little too fast again, but he’s leaned like he felt you do the first time, fitting his mouth against yours easily. It shocks you enough that you react on impulse, your grip on his shoulders tightening as you kiss him back in the summer afternoon. You’re enough in your mind to know not to push your luck, to not deepen the kiss, to not chase his lips when he pulls away, but you’ll admit to yourself that there’s something cathartic about kissing your pretty-boy best friend.

The _flat mate_ might date the boy next door. Everyone had warned you about living with your best friend, said you’d end up hating each other; you couldn’t sign the lease quick enough. Okay, perhaps that was cruel to say, and not the entire truth, but you’d try anything to shake this horrific crush that had only gotten steadily worse over your last few years of high school. He’s going to an acting college, and you’re taking a gap year, working at a local restaurant. Every other weekend he’s dragging you out to the nearest uni bar, and it’s so hard to say no to him when he’s grinning and tipsy in the middle of predrinks in your living room. 

His uni friends know and love you, since they’re always over at the flat running lines or drinking or both, since Ben’s the only first-year in his course to live off campus, which means the two of you are hosting pres most weeks. The cleanup was irritating, but his friends ply you with enough of their booze to keep your poor, uni-student wallet happy.

“You’re so whipped!” One of the girls crowed as Ben pulled you to sit in the circle where they’re all playing King’s Cup. Ben’s grinning where he watches the guy across from the circle carefully draw a card, and he leans over to bump his shoulder against yours.

“He pays half the rent, I have to keep him happy.” You smirk, nudging him in kind. “Now pass me a drink, will you?” You reach out and the girl obligingly passes you a can from the pack she had sitting beside her. 

Ben’s…  _how to put this delicately?_ He’s a  _friendly_ drunk. He’s been that way for as long as you can remember, and sure there’s sometimes other versions -  _sappy, melancholy,_ loud,  _sometimes all three, sometimes something else entirely -_ but, uh,  _friendly_ was the most prominent, and tonight, three minutes after getting to the bar, you’ve lost him to the crowd. He’s an adult, he can take care of himself, so you head for the bar. 

When you find him he’s managed to regroup with a different set of people from his course, ones you’re less familiar with, but you remember their faces. The moment he spots you, Ben calls you name, wraps an arm around you and pressing an obnoxious kiss to your cheek.

“Here’s my main man!” It’s like he’s showing you off, with his arm around your shoulder, but you’ve got a drink in either hand that you’re desperately trying not to spill.

“So I take it that beer you sculled outside- no, that’s mine,” you cut yourself off, moving your hand out of his reach as he reaches for it, “so that beer finally hit you?” You smirk, and Ben stands up as tall as he can; the two of you have become somewhat of a spectacle for the others, all fondly amused and used to Ben’s antics, most of them fairly drunk themselves.

“I,” Ben paused to give his words far more faux gravitas than they needed, “am completely sober and don’t know what you’re talking about.” He blinks rapidly, trying to keep his composure, staring straight ahead with a hand on his heart. You hear him mutter, “ _I am an_ ac- _tor_ ,” under his breath.

“That’s bullshit.” You snorted, and he burped loudly in response, before easily agreeing, slouching back down a little. This time when he reaches for your drink, you sigh and hand it over, and you switch to the drink in the other hand to take a long sip.

This is unfortunately normal night, and you’re just excited for the alcohol to hit so you can stop worrying so much. Over time you’ve learned that part of it is just because he’s a Theatre Student and sometimes they’re just  _like that_ , but part  _is_ indescribably  _Ben_. Some days he’s trying his hardest to wing man you, and other days he doesn’t seem to want to leave your side, and tonight feels like one of the later. 

The thing is, you’ve kissed Drunk Ben more than anyone else in you’re life, because Drunk Ben loves affection, and Drunk You loves  _not_ repressing your crush on him, though it doesn’t matter who initiates it, your heart hurts in hindsight either way. It’s never gone further than that, though it’s come close a few times, in the back of taxis, stumbling home and onto the sofa before one of you finally realises what a terrible idea this is for both of you. It’s usually Ben, since the part of your brain that isn’t focused on how much you want to kiss him, is focused on just pining for him, and yeah, his friends are definitely right; you’re whipped for him.

You guys don’t really talk about it, after the first few times, you just accepted that it was a thing that happened; it was easier than hearing Ben mumble through an apology over breakfast (though it’s three in the afternoon when he wakes), something about being drunk and the two of you being best mates, and ‘ _it’s not that you’re not fit, but_ -’

“Please stop trying to spare my feelings,” and you’re playing so casual about it, even though you’re internally terrified that you’d said something last night about the very real feelings he didn’t realise he was actually trying to spare. But he doesn’t go on about it, and things aren’t awkward, so you figure you’re in the clear.

Things start to go awry when he’s in his second year, and he forgets your birthday for the first time since you’ve known him. Or, actually it turns out he didn’t forget, he just  _chose_ to stay back after rehearsals and miss dinner. Not that you had anything really planned, just pizza from the gourmet place down the road, and he’s  _so_ apologetic, swears he wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t vital, that he and the director had some great character breakthrough moments. You’re happy for him, but  _dude_ , it’s your fucking birthday.

The  _soap opera regular_ hasn’t exactly been known to date the boy next door in real life. Not that that won’t stop you trying. You’ve been bottling it up for  _years_ and it’s still there, those  _feelings_ , maybe speaking them will help you move past them.

“I love you.” Unfortunately you decide to tell him at an season wrap party he’s invited you to for his first season on EastEnders. 

“I love you too, man, I’m glad you could be here.” The two of you are squished onto a sofa, flush beside one another where there’s clearly plenty of room for you both to spread out. His voice is gentle, so damn sincere.

“No, like, Ben I’m  _in love_  with you.” And you watch the range of emotions flick across his face, though you only catch a few before he shuts them all down with an awkward smile.

“Mate, that’s-” and he pauses, frowning and looking down at his hands, “listen, Y/N, you’re my best friend, and I love you like a brother-”

“Got it.” You cut him off with a thumbs up, expression one of cheerful resignation. “Loud and clear; just wanted to keep- uh, keep everyone - us - updated, I guess.” After a beat, you dropped your cheery, tense facade, and sighed, “come on, we can pretend like nothing happened, just don’t make it weird; you’re still my best mate.”

But it  _is_ weird, of course it’s weird, at least for the rest of the night. A few nights later, you get a text after radio silence, just asking how long. When you just respond with ‘ _a while’_ he gets back to you in less than five minutes with an ellipses, followed by a ‘ _huh’._ The next text comes the next day, and it’s asking if you wanted to hang out with him and some of his old theatre friends who were in town. Of course you say yes. Perhaps its a form of masochism.

He doesn’t want to date you, but part of you think he knows, at least subconsciously, that you’ll always be his, just a little bit. So when the two of you go out on the town together, and you’re drunk, and he’s affectionate, you hear him babbling about how he doesn’t want to lead you on, but he just wants to kiss you, and you can feel what little self control you have crumbling with his imploring gaze upon you, as if asking you to make it okay, tell him that it wouldn’t break your heart, though it always does. You kiss him.

He’s never available when you want to spend time with him, not for lack of trying, but his work will always come first. He’s just lucky your schedule is flexible enough to work around his. 

History repeats itself, did you never learn? Part of him wants you, but that part only comes out when he’s drunk.

“You’re m’ favourite, Y/N, favourite person in the world.” He mumbles before he kisses you once. It breaks your heart. It never goes far, he always pulls away, though he’s the one with his hand on your thigh, apologising for leading you on, which is the same sentiment of the texts you get the next day. You tell him to stop apologising. You keep getting drunk with him. though he never seems to be able to make time for you. When you complain to your other friends, they just tell you to stop going out with him, but it’s  _not that simple_. You love him, and being around him, in any capacity, especially one where he pays attention to you and only you, has his hands on  _your_ body, you’d take it wherever you could get it.

He loves you. You figure this out the moment he finally stops worrying and calls a taxi for the both of you one night, it seems with no intention of slowing down. He loves you, but not enough to prioritise you. Not compared to his career. The realisation hits you in the taxi, and you’re trying to keep everything PG for the driver, so he’s rattling off his plan for the next day, talking about how early he’ll have to leave to get to the gym the next morning.

“Couldn’t you stay? Even a little bit later than that?” You ask, and the taxi’s pulling up at your flat; he says he can’t. “You should go home then.” It  _hurts_ to say it, and he looks shocked, his big, blue eyes blinking slowly in confusion. “We’re too drunk for this anyways.” You leave him in the back seat of the taxi, stunned, not even kissing him goodbye as you shut the door, heading up to your flat alone.

He apologises over text, and asks if he did something wrong. 

He loves you, like,  _loves you_ loves you, but he barely has the time to be your friend, let alone anything else. Knowing this hurts so much more than thinking he just didn’t like you like that. It hurts to be second best to his career, but you understand it; you won’t begrudge him that, at least he knows what he wants to do with his life. 

[ _Honestly, I still love you, and getting drunk with you isn’t the same as in uni. This is bad for us and I think we need to slow it down._ ] You send the text and watch the little bubbles of his response hover around for a  _very long time_. 

[ _I love you too_.]

[….] You pause for a very long time after sending the ellipses, staring at your phone screen. [ _Dude, you don’t have the time to love me, but I appreciate the effort_.] It’s easy to sound light over text when he can’t see that his response, his  _confirmation_ , has shattered your heart. You switch your phone onto aeroplane mode for a full forty-eight hours after that.

The movie star might love the boy next door, but he doesn’t date him. It was between you and his future, it was an easy decision to make.


	22. guessing games {Ben Hardy}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: PLEASE WRITE ABOUT ACTUALLY BREAKING A BED WITH BEN (About the bed breaking with Ben message i just sent - it doesnt have to be smutty! I just had this idea in my head of joe stopping by and then seeing a broken bed)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Ben Hardy. I’m not sure this is what the prompt asked for but like…… we have some fun cast interactions and things get like PG13 hot and heavy a bit later on, enjoy!! Also I know Joe isn’t this dense irl but it’s just a bit of fun.

Ben’s seeing someone on set and he won’t tell Joe who. It’s not that he owes Joe his whole life story or anything, he doesn’t even own him her name, but he keeps making these little comments, almost  _teasing_ Joe for not knowing who it is, and at this point it’s a matter of  _principle_.

“That sucks, dude,” you say blithely when you’re sitting beside Joe in the makeup trailer as the makeup team buzzes around you, “do you know  _why_ he won’t tell you?”

“Because he likes being a dick.” Joe sulks for a moment, clearly overplaying how upset he was; it was a game, an act, part of the banter he and Ben had begun to share. “Do you know?”

“Of course,” you answer easily, cracking your eyes open if only to take pleasure in the way Joe’s mouth fell open as he gasped over dramatically, “I play his wife, that’s a very special bond, you wouldn’t understand.” You smirk, playing along with the bit and closing your eye again, settling further into your chair.

“You guys wound me, you know that?” With a huff, Joe sits back too and lets the makeup team finish their work. Now that he knows  _you_ know, and you know that  _he_ know you know, as complicated as it is, you start joining in more often, not as much as Ben, of course, but the fact that Joe has  _still_ yet to figure out that you know  _because it’s you Ben’s with_ , continues to be both baffling and absolutely hilarious.

It’s not even a secret, honestly, you’ve been spotted together more than once, photos of the two of you leaving clubs together have made tabloids, though looking through them is something everyone here tends to avoid, so maybe it’s not  _as_ obvious as you assume it is.

You and Ben are together, and Rami’s known since the beginning; perhaps it was the spirit of Freddie Mercury that made him aware of people’s personal goings on, but there was more to the two of you than just a working relationship, judging by the easy, casual confidence of Ben’s arm around your waist. 

There’s a break between takes for the party at Garden Lodge,t and you’re tucked up against Ben’s side on the gilded sofa, quietly teasing him about his wig as he smacked your hands away from it, trying not to laugh. Joe’s watching you both, giving you a look like he’s  _so close_ to figuring out the last piece of a puzzle, though neither of you notice.

“Who is it?” He asks, and  _really?_ You really thought you weren’t being subtle; you and Ben share a look, and Rami, who’s looking between the three of you, finally clues in.

“Dude, are you kidding me?” And it’s all him, snapping out of his Freddie-zone to voice his disbelief. He’d known about the little deception since the start, agreed not to interfere or tell Joe since it was kind of funny to watch him ignore the obvious. After a pained moment, he turns from looking at Joe, to looking at you and Ben. “If he doesn’t know by now there might be no hope for him.”

“You know too?!” Joe cries, and Gwilym, from his seat opposite Joe, frowns.

“Wait, do you still not know about Ben and-” Gwil tries, but you give a shout.

“Don’t tell him!” Ben cuts in with a grin, “he has to figure it out for himself.” And he turns, gives you a very pointed grin as the director yells for everyone to standby; Ben gives you a quick kiss on the nose and Joe just frowns deeper before he gets back into character.

It’s not that it takes up all of his time, it’s not that he even mentions it a lot, but everyone’s acting like it’s  _obvious_ and he just  _can’t put his finger on it_. 

“If I guess it right will you tell me?” He asks over a cast dinner; the fact that you were there despite being in a grand total of two scenes should have been a dead giveaway, and yet.

“Sure.” Ben concedes, and you’re sipping at the complimentary water and trying not to laugh. Joe starts rattling off names; girls who played groupies, tech crew members, people in hair and makeup.

“Put him out of his misery,” Lucy half laughs, as Ben denies every single one.

“Put me out of my misery.” Joe agrees, and Ben hums, but shakes his head, leaning back against the booth, slinging his arm across your shoulders. “Y/N,” Joe says suddenly, eyes lighting up, and Ben smiles, amused, waiting for him to elaborate; the rest of the table waits with baited breath, wondering if he’d finally figured it out, “you’d tell me if he was lying, wouldn’t you?” He asks, and you’re about ready to faceplant into your dinner. There’s a collective groan from everyone else at the table and Joe looks confused. “What?!” After a beat, Joe’s frown deepens, “how come we never see her on set; she  _is_ on set, right?” Another loud groan and Rami buries his face in his hands.

“Ben, stop torturing the poor man.” Allen groans, and Ben just grins wider.

“If he can’t see what’s right in front of his nose, that’s his fault.” Ben shrugs, smug smile on his lips.

“We’ve practically spelled it out for him, at this point it’s just willful ignorance,” you chimed in, and Joe’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and indignation.

“Spelled it out? You guys are the worst about it! Y/N I don’t even understand why you’re playing along at all,” and he’s met with a cry of dismay from almost everyone at the table, yourself included.

“Joe, you’re killing me.” Rami groans. 

“He’s gonna hate himself when he figures it out,” Tom finally pipes up from where he’s been gazing into the middle distance looking as though he’s quickly forming a headache. Joe opens his mouth, but Lucy holds up a hand.

“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘ _I know who it is and it’s-’”_ and she pressed her lips together, gesticulating and still trying to not make it obvious it was you, despite how much it was paining her, “ _the_ correct  _name_ , I’m going to stab you with my fork.” She warns.

“First, you couldn’t reach me-” Joe says smugly, but Rami, who is now pinching the bridge of his nose, holds up a fork from where he’s sitting beside Joe.

“I second that.” He sighs, and Lucy gives a triumphant little grin, and Joe’s face falls.

“ _Fine_ , but I  _will_ find out.” He says it like it’s a threat, and almost everyone around the table collectively groans out begrudging encouragement. You and Ben grin at each other.

He’s still not realised by the time filming wraps in London, and he’s  _seen you kiss Ben several times_. He just thinks that  _whoever_ he’s dating is just  _super chill_ with how in character the two of you are. Part of you wants to never tell him, let him live this little delusion. 

“Listen,” Ben, granted he’s a little tipsy, claps Joe on the shoulder at the wrap party, “man, come ‘round for lunch tomorrow and I’ll tell you who she is.” He offers, and Joe scowls.

“Will she be there?” He asks, so tired of not knowing by this point that he’s willing to go along with practically anything.

“I promise.” Ben assures.

It was the perfect plan, both you and Ben were  _far_ too amused that it had managed to go on for this long, and you’re both so elated now that filming’s finished and that you’ll finally get the next few weeks off to just relax that you lose yourself a little in the night. 

Ben’s grinning when you pull him to you, pressing your lips to his where he’s fiddling with his keys at the door to his flat. You’re both murmuring amused congratulations - to each other, against each other - on your performances on the film, fumbling and quick to get the other undressed. He’s still in his suit pants and you’re in that nice set of underwear you bought for tonight, though it doesn’t stay that way for long. 

Ben’s got his mouth and his hands on you, and you’re trying so hard to keep quiet because honestly you didn’t want another complaint incident. Ben, however, seemed to have other ideas. He smirks up at you where you’ve got a hand pressed to your own mouth to muffle yourself, and he bites at your hip as you’re grinding yourself against his fingers, and you let out a yelp.

“You don’t need to be quiet.” He assures, and you try to stutter out that you do, but he’s quick to tell you that his neighbours have moved out almost a month ago. After looking at him wide-eyed for a moment, you carefully takes your hand away from your mouth, hesitantly carding your fingers through his hair as encouragement.

The only thing that ends up being louder than you moaning his name is the crack of the bed frame, the noises you make spurring Ben on perhaps a little too much as one of the bedposts gives out at the head of the bed, shortly followed by the other. The bed only shifts a little, the bed head being held up by the wall, which definitely wasn’t good for it considering how much it was moving, but that was a problem for tomorrow. Ben’s even a little proud.

Tomorrow, however, is the same day that Joe’s coming over, and you both wake up far later than intended, on a broken bed. Joe messaged Ben while you were both asleep, and by the time he reads it, it’s only forty-five minutes until Joe was set to arrive.

“Shower first,” you yawned, and Ben agreed easily. After showering, there wasn’t much time to prepare food, let alone deal with the bed situation, so you just closed the bedroom door and pushed it out of both your minds for the time being.

“He’s going to hate it when he realises.” Ben grinned, and maybe at this point it was a little sadistic, but like Joe had said, it was the  _principle_ of the thing. When Ben opens the door, Joe looks at him expectantly.

“There’s been too much of a buildup.” Joe says, stepping into the hall, and Ben grins.

“There’s only been a buildup because you’re dense as a brick, mate.” Ben told him, leading him into the kitchen and living room area, where you were sitting on the sofa.

“Is this a joke? Guys this isn’t funny anymore; Ben do you even have a girlfriend?” Joe asked, clearly irritated at the sight of you, and yeah you’d sort of been expecting this.

“Joe, tell me you’re not this thick.” You said, standing, and Joe frowns, looking from you to Ben, who was grinning, and then back to you. You see the  _exact moment_ it all clicks in his mind, and his expression is  _priceless_.

“ _No_.” He groaned, replaying everything in his mind that had happened over the past few months on set, seeing it all in a new light. “Please be kidding.” When you and Ben just share an amused look, Joe sighs deeply. “Fucking hell.” And he walks in the direction of your bedroom, to which both you and Ben cry out.

“What are you doing?” You yelped, and Joe starts, looking back at you.

“I need a moment alone to process this-  _it was right in front of my nose!_ I get it now and I hate it.” He sighed, disappointed in himself.

“Not in there.” Ben warns, and Joe raised his eyebrows.

“Not in there?” He asks, confused and a little amused, wondering what was so devious or shocking that you both had wanted to keep him out of there.

“Bedroom.” You offer sharply, feeling yourself get flustered as you admit. “Bed’s, uh, broken.”

“ _Oh my God_.” Joe’s eyes widen and he turns, making his way to the front door, admitting defeat. “You guys are the  _worst_ , I cannot  _believe-”_ And he just sound so frustrated with himself as he leaves, and Ben turns to you, eyebrows raised.

“I think that went well.” He grins, still a little pink with embarrassment.

“Maybe we should give him some time to come to terms with everything,” you mused, and Ben snickered, nodding as he made his way towards you, “should we deal with the bed now?” You asked, and Ben hummed, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Honestly, I’d like to try and break the rest of it, just for good measure.” He tells you, though it doesn’t really make any sense. You agree anyhow.

“If we’re getting a new bed frame anyways we might as well get all the use out of this one that we can.”


	23. a kind of loneliness {Roger Taylor}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: I would totally love a Roger fic where the reader is secretly in love with him, but hides it because she constantly has to see him with other girls. I also imagine that when she tells him, he doesn’t feel that way initially…but gets jealous when she tries to move on with other guys. And then BAM! He has a revelation that he is in love with the reader, shows up in her doorstep in the pouring rain still wondering if she feels the same (which she does) and they have passionate and loving ending!
> 
> Anon asked: How about y/n is a photographer for Queen and Roger takes quite the liking to her! And you know bc it’s the 70’s it’s all film and Polaroid photography! 😍 And I vibe like y/n giving him a lesson on how to develop photos and him teaching her drums. OMGG.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cha-chas real smooth in with a fic that’s a day late. Despite the prompts it’s a gender neutral reader. Anyways the alternate title for this is ‘it hurts not to love him, it hurts when love fades’ from Falsettos but that was a bit long. Not exactly what either of you wanted but like…….. its here now. Hope you like it. it’s been a while since my last roger imagine, this is a bit of angst and pining i don’t know what to technically classify this as tho.

His hair is dark when you first fall in love with him, not especially dark, just darker than the world like to remember, but you’ll recall this detail about him clearly because the sun turns it gold when he’s smiling down at you where you’d made a valiant attempt at a picnic. You’re leaning back on the grass, and you can’t help but grin at him, so unbelievably enamoured by him that it almost hurts. You can’t even remember what the two of you had been talking about when you reach up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, and his eyes -  _god, you’d never forget the way he looked at you_ \- drifted to your lips.

There’s a moment, a pause, you both know what’s about to happen. You’re breath’s caught in your throat, heart beating hard enough against you’re ribs that you’re afraid it shows. He’s haloed by the light, propped up on his side beside you, asks you why you’re the one taking photos when you’re the beautiful one-

A duck honks hungrily a few feet away, and you burst out laughing. It’s like you can breath again as he looks away from you, turning his attention instead to the intrusive bird. Hand pressed to your mouth, you turn to hide your grin against Roger’s chest as he reaches over you to yell at the creature and begrudgingly toss it the sandwich it had been eyeing.

“Fuckin’ vulture.” He snaps, obviously put out, until he comes back from his annoyance to hear the sound of your laughter. The duck quacks in what you both interpret as some sort of thanks, and that just sets you off again.

“What’d you give him?” You asked, and your eyes shine with amusement when you leaned back to grin at him, and Roger’s wearing that smile that makes your heart melt a little. 

In that one moment you wonder how you got here, how your few stints as Queen’s photographer had lead to very possibly, at the very  _least,_ hooking up with Roger Taylor. You’d just suggested a picnic to the band because it was a nice day and you could get some nice shots of them outside, but one by one the others had drifted back to the hotel they’d been staying in, and you’d taken a few nice photos of Roger pelting pieces of bread in the general direction of some ducks. But then you’re laying back and looking up at the sky, he’s laying beside you, the two of you talking about whatever shallow fascination passed through your minds at any given moment. So you’re not exactly sure how you’d gotten  _here_ , with his hand on your hip to steady himself as he’s propped up on his side beside you, but it gives you cause for hesitation.

You’ve seen him look at girls like that before, have heard him call them beautiful, and he might mean it at the time, but they mean nothing to him. If he has even half a chance at a pretty girl he’ll take it, and you’re no exception, even if you are working with the band on a semi-regular basis.

“You- that was  _my_ sandwich!” It’s easier to chase after the bird with half your lunch in it’s mouth than to make the mistake of kissing Roger, no matter how much you wanted to. As you scramble away from him, he seems to read the change in the situation easily, laughing loud and bright, even picking up your camera to catch a shot of you with your arms outstretched to the frantic duck. He doesn’t seem the least bit phased by your implicit rejection, and you can’t help but feel a little bit disappointed; on the list of Roger’s potential conquest, you weren’t special by virtue of seeing him often, or at all, and despite how foolish you think it is, you’re hurt by this fact.

But you still know you’re in far too deep, and can’t forget the way he smiled at you that afternoon.

* * *

 

 _The first photo you ever took of Queen was blurry as all hell, since the “_ official _” photographer, who you were assistant to at the time, insisted that you were doing it all wrong and tried to grab the camera back from you mid-shot. It would have been nice too, you’d told them to be candid when you’d been given a chance during the photoshoot, told them to just pretend like they were having a nice, normal chat, asked them about what they had planned for the weekend, and right as you snapped the photo, Roger had made an incredibly crude joke and was beaming as the others reacted; John was hiding a grin behind his hand, Freddie had practically fallen out of his chair from laughing, and Brian looked like he’d been winded from surprise._

_“You live and learn, maybe next time you’ll do better.” The photographer tells you back in the studio after the photos have developed, with only the barest hint of fake apology before he tosses it into the garbage. You fish it out and manage to finally get a good look at it; it’s out of focus; Freddie’s the worst, just a dark blur where you’ve caught him mid-fall, but you’re pretty sure you can make out both Roger and Brian’s expressions, and you know without even looking that they’re not nearly so happy in any photos the photographer has taken._

_You pin the photo to the cork board above your desk at home, along with your other favourite photos, and you don’t think much about the band other than how you regret not getting a clear shot._

* * *

 

His hair is blonde when you finally admit how you feel about him. He’s bleached it since you’d last seen him, though it hasn’t been that long, and you think he’s so beautiful it aches a little.

“What’s got you all hot and bothered?” He plops himself down next to you when the band is taking a lunch break during a rehearsal that you’ve been invited to attend, and you’re the only two in the lobby. “I haven’t seen you like this since-”

“You’ve never seen me hot and bothered,” you inform him, tone clipped looking anywhere but at him because he looks like a fucking angel and it’s not doing your irritating crush any favours. He shrugs, grinning and rolling his eyes, slinging an arm over the back of the sofa behind you.

“Not for a lack of trying,” he smirks, but you’re so fucking tired of this charade and he can’t keep flirting with you like this without knowing the stakes.

“I have feelings for you,” you blurt out, speaking without even considering what his reaction would be, “like probably serious feelings, which I  _know_ is stupid, okay, I just-”

“Darling, it’s not stupid,” he pulls you into a side hug and just for the moment, despite knowing what’s coming, you let yourself lean into it. His voice is gentle, as if he’s had a lot of practice giving this sort of speech, “I’m flattered, but,” and at this he did hesitate, looking away for a moment as he considered his words for a moment -  _perhaps for the first time in his life_ , you considered, “first, you know I think you’re an absolute stunner, but serious just isn’t where I’m at right now, dear, I’m sorry.”

And you smile, say it’s alright, because it  _is_ , it  _has to be_ , but then he’s off again when the others are back, and it’s like nothing had ever happened. Nothing changes, and that’s the worst part. 

When he sees you admiring Queen’s opening act from side of stage, he wraps you in a hug, same as all the others, but he still has that indescribable effect on you that the others simply  _don’t_.

“It’s so good to see you!” And he sounds like he means it, and like he’s already a bit drunk, and he kisses both your cheeks before the band on stage finishes their song and he’s whirled away to applaud with everyone else, as if he’s already forgotten you.

It doesn’t hurt anymore, not like it once did; you’re a professional, you do your job, you ignore the thousands of screaming fans who just want to get into his pants.

What does hurt is how much he apparently likes you being around him, despite the girls at the after party seeking his attention. He buys you drinks with a smirk - “ _Make sure you get my good side, love_.” - despite the fact that you’ve told him you don’t drink, and sometimes, not often, but once or twice when you’ve gone off to roam the room and take photos of the gathered fans, roadies, and crew members, someone will find you and tell you that he’s looking for you.

“He’s so  _needy_.” you’re tired when the words slip out, to  _Brian_ of all people, who just gives a thin smile that is equal parts sympathetic and knowing. 

“Isn’t that a cruel irony,” he snorted, taking a seat beside you at the bar instead of head back to whatever it was he’d been doing before he’d been sent to fetch you, “if only all the girls who liked him could realise that.” He snorted, watching as a defensive fluster overcame you; you hadn't exactly wanted your feelings to become public knowledge, especially since they clearly weren't returned.

“I  _do not-_ that’s- dude, that’s so unprofessional, I would  _never_ -” 

“Has he made a move on you yet?” Brian cuts you off and you press your lips into a thin line, taking a moment to snap a few photos of the dancers spinning themselves out on the dancefloor.

“Why are you asking?” After a beat, your frown deepens. “Why are you here?” You snap another photo, but he doesn’t seem bothered, he just hums for a moment before answering.

“Because you’re my friend, and because-” 

“Don’t give me a spiel, don’t give me all that crap,” you sighed, and turned your camera on him, the photo you take, which will turn out a little blurry but mostly in focus, catches Brian’s amused smile and raised eyebrows better than most any other photo, “what do you want?”

“Okay, no spiel; I want you, tonight I want to make you smile, and I want what Roger is missing out on.”  Despite the situation, the setting, he’s surprisingly sincere, though you appreciate his honest pettiness. After a moment he adds, “and I mean it, you’re my friend and I don’t want that to change.” 

In terms of safe ways of coping with your crush on Roger Taylor, sleeping with his bandmate in some ill-guided attempt to maybe make him jealous in a way that you’re almost positive that he won’t care about, is pretty low on the list. Brian, despite this, is warm and secure and he genuinely cares about you having a good time, and it’s easy to breeze past it and remain friends like nothing had happened. But still, it’s painful in ways you hadn’t quite expected.

It’s been a while since you’d woken up in someone’s arms and it hurts when you leave the security they provided. When you’re in the shower, all you can think about is that you feel bad for feeling like you’re leading Brian on, even though you were both clear about the night being a one-time, strings-free deal, and it hurts that some times, without meaning to, all you could think about what Roger despite being with Brian. You leave shoes in hand, sneaking like a teenager and preparing for a walk of shame back to your own hotel room, and what hurts the most is that Roger’s on the other side of Brian’s door, fist raised like he’s about to knock, expression shocked at coming face-to-face with you.

“ _Oh_.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft. You’re not sure what to read into it.

He goes on acting like he’d never seen anything, like you and he are still good friends. That, in retrospect, is infinitely harder than any interaction you would ever have with Brian after this moment.

* * *

 

He likes you because you like him, it’s as simple as that. Part of him knows he’s leading you on the way he keeps you around, smiling a little too mischievously, standing a little too close, even pinching your ass when he’s feeling especially cheeky. In turn, you know you shouldn’t let him get away with it, should tell him to back off, should stop getting yourself into these situations to begin with, but… you can’t. Freddie’s pity stings.

To be unwanted, and yet somehow still needed, is a cruel and unusual punishment for existing in the same space as Roger Meddows Taylor.

* * *

 

He’s still blonde, but his hair is short when you finally stop playing along, when he realises you’re trying to get over him. You remember this moment because you fucking love his short hair, and the first time you see it you just want to run your fingers through it.

“How,” He’s in your studio picking up some photos for the band’s publicist, “do you do this?” He definitely could have sent a lackey to do this, but instead he’s made himself comfortable on the sofa, looking through your portfolio.

“How do I take pictures?” You ask, raising your eyebrow as you double check all the photos from the last promotional shoot the band had done.

“No, I get the point and click aspect; it’s the film part, developing them, it’s always fascinated me.” He says, flipping through the pages, eyes grazing over some of your best work with mild interest. Wasn’t that unfortunately all too familiar, it felt like in the past few years that’s all he regarded you with; the moment you’d stopped paying him complete attention he’d lost interest. Sometimes, like now for instance, he made a point to keep inserting himself into your life, but it was an empty gesture; you don’t talk like you once did. To call yourselves good friends was generous at this point, at least from your perspective. 

“It’s taken you this long to ask?” You snorted. When he looks up, his smirk sharp and eyes amused, and there’s a moment when you feel yourself slipping, but you look away quickly, hiding your own amused smile.

“I’ve been a bit busy, dear.” And as if to prove a point, he flips the folio around to show off a photo of himself. Both he and the photo are wearing the same smile, and your own expression is momentarily fond. There's something a little indescribable in his eyes when his gaze meets yours.

“You do look lovely there.” You concede.

Oh God, there it is, that irritating feeling in your chest that just won’t leave, the way his smile always makes your heart warm. Maybe, just maybe he feels something too, you think, because he closes the portfolio and gives you an evaluative stare. He wasn’t one to be quiet for long, it’s a little unnerving.

“You look all nice  _now_ , what’s the occasion?” And the compliment alone would have sent your heart racing some years ago, but for now you’re so used to hearing his shallow niceties that it barely phases you. But he’s right, you’re a little dressed up, only having come into the studio for this errand, not expecting Roger himself to show up.

“I’ve got a date,” you admit, and it comes as a surprise when he actually looks a little shocked, “don’t look so surprised.” Your face scrunches reflexively, a little hurt that the idea of you dating would be so shocking to him.

“I- no, good on you, love.” He tries to save himself, but the damage is done, and even so, his heart’s not in it. “Who’s the lucky fella?” He asked, shooting for casual. Unlike with the rest of his friends, at least with interactions like this that you’ve witnessed, his smile, his interest seems forced, and part of you tries to take victory in that, but you realise all you want is to see him smile genuinely. It’s been a while since you’d felt like that. Part of you thinks you should spend more time with him again. Part of you knows that’s a terrible idea.

Your date goes well, but the spark’s not there. 

Being lonely is  _exhausting_ , which especially when surrounded with people, because you’ve just been trying to feel something for someone else that even holds a candle to the way you feel about him, but it’s not working. 

* * *

 

You realise you need to stop timestamping the big moments in your relationship with Roger by the way he wears his hair, because it’s shallow, and you’re trying  _really hard_ to not care about what he chooses to do with himself.

But he’s making it very difficult.

Because he’s chosen to show up at your doorstep at like three in the morning, unsurprisingly drunk.

“Don’t exile me to the lounge,” his voice is a whine as he clutches the pillow you throw at him, “please, can I just say what I came here to say?” He asks, and you’re rolling your eyes, heart calcified against years of weathering his somewhat besotted looks with no follow through.

“Absolutely not; sober up and stop being dramatic, you wanker.” You respond, and Roger groans loudly but concedes easily, stomping through your house to his bed for the night in your living room.

“Do you still have feelings for me?” He ambushes you with the question when you come to check if he’s found the blankets okay, and you actually pause.

“What?” It takes a moment for you to recall the moment from your long history with the drummer, but you pick it eventually, and he’s just watching quietly as your face scrunches reflexively. “That was like four years ago, why does it matter now?" Pinching the bridge of your nose you give yourself a long moment to breathe.

"Because I think I made a mistake." That was the last thing you had ever thought you'd hear Roger utter.

"What does that mean? You didn't like me like that back then, you can't chan-"

"Don’t be daft, of course I liked you-”

“Don’t call me daft when you outright rejected me, Roger.” You snap, and that shuts him up fast. “I liked you, and that’s  _not your fault_ , okay, I get that-”

“What does that have to do with-”

“I’m trying to say that you don’t have to have feelings for me out of pity or some fucking social obligation;” you cried, hands balling into fists by your side trying and failing to keep your own feelings in check, “you’re drunk, and it’s sweet that I was on your mind or whatever, but this will pass tomorrow; don’t do something you regret.”

“Is that why you never...” Roger actually took the moment to consider his words, looking up at the ceiling with a frown, “is that why  _we_ never- because you’d regret it?” There was genuine hurt written across his face; you looked away. “Do you still love me?”

“ _Love_ is a very strong word.” You hummed, crossing your arm, still refusing to look anywhere but at him.

“So that’s a no?” His voice is frank, almost artificially so, a tone you knew all too well.

A long silence stretched between the two of you.

You broke with a sigh, “of course I love you, how could I not?” Finally, you make your way to him, moving from the doorframe to sit on the arm of the sofa by his feet.

“You’ve known me for years, Y/N, that’s an easy question to answer.” It’s a surprisingly raw answer, his self awareness catching you off guard. “I love you, I think.” To have him admit that right after a moment of startling self awareness is almost a little disorientating.

“You  _think_?” Voice full of skepticism, you rest a hand on his ankle and he finally meets your gaze.

“No, I know.” And his words are once again met with silence, and yet another deep sigh.

“You’re drunk.” You pull the blanket down to cover his feet and stand, but he’s not going to take that as an answer.

“I love you.”

“Go to sleep.” You can’t handle this right now, can’t handle this. Your heart fucking hurts. His drunken confessions aren’t nearly as endearing as he probably thinks they are.

“Will you listen to me?” He huffs, and the squeak of the sofa is enough to let you know he’s sitting up now, probably looking long suffering or indignant, as if he had any right.

“Not when you’re drunk.” You dimiss quickly.

“I’ve loved you for  _years,_ I just-”

“Why didn’t you do anything about it?!” You turned on him, expression fierce, and his own face fell, stepping back in the face of your fury. “You didn’t love me, you loved having someone who loved you without having to be actually emotionally invested, and now, when you think I might be leaving is when you spontaneously decide to catch feelings? Fuck  _off_ Roger, I’m sick of being ointment for your fucking ego.” Turning on your heel, you’re about ready to march back to your own room when he calls out to you.

“I think you’re talented,” he speaks clearly, his gaze unwavering, though he looks a little wounded, you make a noise of confusion but he continues, “I think you’re a hard worker, and love, not a lot of people make me laugh like you do. I like that you love me, of course I do, but it’s not why I love you, why I want to always be around you.”

“Shut up-” You mutter through your teeth, heart not in your words, voice weak.

“ _No_ , listen to me, damn it I’m being honest and vulnerable here,” he groaned, “listen, I was a dickhead kid who liked living the rockstar life, hell, I still do, but you’re right, okay? You’ve been drifting away for a while, you’re leaving and it gave me a kick in the ass because I- I can’t see my life without you,” he admitted, and you could feel tears welling in your eyes. There was the sound of movement behind you but you didn’t turn around, couldn’t bare to look at him right now, to let him see how much this was effecting you, “and it was easier to pretend like that wasn’t serious and fucking terrifying when you were always around, but I do, I love you, and if I don’t get my shit together, one day you’ll just be gone and I-” he swallowed thickly, “I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I don’t actually have a lot of regrets, and I’m not going to let not telling you I love you be one.”

There’s a light touch on your shoulder, and when you turn, he’s there, eyes wide and bright, surprised to see you crying, and honestly still a little shocked that he’d managed to articulate his feelings so well. He reaches out, his hand cupping your face as his thumb brushes a tear from your cheek.

“If you wake up tomorrow and take it all back-” you sniffle, but he laughs gently, stepping forward, his other hand coming up to frame your face.

“Not going to happen, I told you I mean it.” He said, and finally -  _finally_ \- you feel  _years_ of pining being validated, hope bleeding through your words when you speak them.

“You love me?” You ask gently, and when he smiles, it’s bright and genuine. There’s going to be a serious conversation the following morning, but for now, when he leans in and presses his lips to yours, everything you’d been feeling since you’d practically met him, feels like it’s all been leading to this moment. It feels right. When he pulls back, you’re smiling, soft and bashful, still a little teary but you’re letting yourself enjoy this one moment. He looks  _so fucking endeared._

“Of course I love you, how could I not?”


	24. sharp dressed {Joe Mazzello}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @yourqueeniac asked: Hey friend, its been a rough week. I was wondering if you could do some Joe comfort/cheering up? I just really need some Joe cuddles right about now.
> 
> @80sfeel asked: please GOD can you write joe x reader comforting reader after a long hard day? (i stan you so hard and i’ve had a rough day and i could use some fluffy joey)
> 
> Anon asked: Please write something disgustingly domestic with Joe!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nonbinary/transmasc reader, no pronouns used at all, just that the reader is wearing a binder and a suit for the awards show. this is incredibly self indulgent and has been sitting in my drafts half written for a month, it sort of fits the prompts, but not 100% so i hope it’s okay. no time like the present. it’s just a little thing i hope you enjoy.

The night of the Golden Globes was dripping with glamour; you’d been dressed to the nines, well tailored suit over a new binder, makeup impeccable and eyeliner sharp; your stylist team had really outdone yourself. You’d spent enough time squishing your chest around beneath your binder to get it to sit correctly for your first  _actually tailored_ suit that you felt justified in your vanity, and before you’d even left your hotel room you’d taken a bunch of mirror selfies in the rich, colourful suit you’d chosen for the occasion. It was a night of partying, of watching your favourite people earn awards they had so rightfully earned. 

You took pride in your friends, and of course your boyfriend, who had spent half the night drunk and taking photos for Instagram that would just pour gasoline onto the fire that was the shipping wars between the people who shipped him and Ben, and those that shipped him and you. It was all in good fun, of course, you’d been with Joe for almost three years now, and still going strong, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t added fuel to the Ben/Joe fire online yourself.

But as the party began to die down and people started heading back to their hotels, you could feel yourself getting tired and antsy as you looked through your Instagram feed. The cast and crew of Bohemian Rhapsody were wrapped up in a group hug as people started to announce their plans to leave, and when Joe spots you off to the side, frowning at your phone, he reaches out, calls out, and pulls you in to the group’s embrace.

“Something’s on your mind,” Joe’s playing with your hand in the back of the car taking you back to your hotel. The gnawing discomfort in your chest is something you’re painfully aware of, and it’s not the usual aching discomfort of wearing a binder too long; this one is new.

“I don’t know,” you sigh into the silence that permeates the back of the car, leaning across the empty middle seat to rest your head on his shoulder, before unclipping your seatbelt as the car stopped at a light, shifting to close the gap between the two of you. You both know how tired you are; he doesn’t press the issue, just wraps an arm around you and tucks you closer to his side.

His hand is warm in yours where he holds it all the way through the lobby, into the elevator, keeping you close where you’re both starting to tip into drowsy.

“Also, I don’t know if I told you this,” and he’s smiling a little in the slow moving elevator, because he knows he  _definitely_  has, “but you looked incredible tonight,” and he says it anyways because he loves the way your face lights up with bashful joy whenever he says it.

“Thank you,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his cheek, but then as you think over it, your expression starts to fall as you as pulled into your own mind, your own thoughts.

“There it is again,” he reaches up to tip your chin up gently, concern in his eyes when his gaze meets yours, “something’s up.” You can’t really form your thoughts into words, merely humming with discontent and shifting away from him to avoid his gaze. “If you want me to drop it I will,” he assured, and as the elevator door opens, you stepped out, considering your next words carefully.

“No, I mean I don’t mind talking about them - it’s nothing serious; not about us -” you assured quickly, a look of relief passed over Joe’s concerned face.

“I was worried there for a minute.”

“But it’s not like, your stuff to deal with, like it’s not stuff that someone else can  _fix,_ I just gotta get over myself, you know?” There’s a moment that stretched between the two of you as you stand at the door to your room, Joe frowning with the keycard in hand as he tries to decipher what you’re trying to say. “I’m worried the internet likes Ben more than me.” You blurt out, and Joe’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise as he opens the door.

“Are you jealous?” And there’s not even a hint of teasing in his words, he’s genuinely concerned, but you have to laugh. You’re not even a little bit surprised by Joe’s confused look, it wasn’t even close to the reaction he had been expecting.

“I have no doubt in my mind that if you wanted to be dating Ben, you’d be dating Ben,” you grinned, and Joe thought on that for a moment before making a noise of agreement, and stepping in to give you a kiss.

“He’s not my type,” Joe agrees, stepping through to the rest of the room, toeing off his shoes.

“And that is?” You asked with a grin, and there’s mischief in his eyes as he throws his response over his shoulder.

“You.”

“Gross.” You snorted in response, but before he could protest you’re stepping in close and wrapping your arms around him. “Get that sappy shit out of here,” voice soft, you can’t help but smile before you lean in.

“Absolutely not,” he grins in response, and closes the gap between you before you can protest, not that you would.

“What are you worried about, just about the fans’ reactions in general?” By the time you’ve broken apart, started to actually undress, he’s back to your initial concern, and there’s that uncomfortable sensation worming back into your chest.

“I just know that,” and you actually hesitate for a moment where you’re unbuttoning your dress shirt, “things can be intense online, like they’ve been intense before but not like this, you know? And  _I_ know I love you, but it’s just hard when people either hound me for information about you, or send me nasty messages because I’m supposedly “ _ruining your relationship with Ben_ ”.” You’re breathing hard when you finally come to a stop, dress shirt crumpled on the floor where you’ve thrown it, concern etched deeply into the lines on your face. “I block them, but I’m just worried one day I’m gonna snap and be nasty back, and then you’ll not be able to be seen with me because I’m ‘ _problematic_ ’ or some shit.” You’re even shaking a little now, your mind flooded with all the nasty and cruel messages you’d been sent by supposed fans since the release of the film.

“Hey,” Joe’s by your side in an instant, holding your shoulders gently, voice so gentle and caring that it’s like a life raft in the ever growing sea of your dark, internet-related thoughts, “I love you, and telling people to fuck off for harassing you  _isn’t_ going to change that; nothing on the internet is going to change that - that place can be awful, I know.” 

It’s like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding as you surge forwards into his arms. 

“Thank you,” you breath, and he hums assurance, hands warm on your back, before he’s tugging at the edge of your binder.

“You want some help with this?” And it’s not even a sexual thing, at least not right now, but he’d seen you struggle with it too many times, and he knows the drill by now. You accept easily, pulling it up as far as it can go without straining yourself, and ducking a little so Joe could pull it off the rest of the way, tossing it to the side to deal with tomorrow.

“I love you too, you know that? ‘m very grateful for you,” you muse softly, wrapping your arms around him, your chest pressed to his as you both stand in your suit pants in the middle of the dimly-lit hotel.

“Get that sappy shit out of here,” he smirked in response, and you can’t help but laugh as he peppers your face with kisses. When you pull back to start undoing your pants, you click your tongue. Before you fully move away however, Joe ducks to press a quick kiss to a red mark the binder had left on your chest, not that it had been painful or too tight, you’d just been wearing it for a while.

“I haven’t even  _started_ with the sappy shit;” you snickered, though there was a fondness in your eyes that you couldn’t hide as he moved back, “your movie won a  _goddamn Golden Globe_ tonight, if you think I’m not gonna spend the night telling you how proud I am, and how much I love you, among other things that I  _know_ you’re gonna enjoy, you’re dead wrong.” 

“Best damn night of my life,” Joe breathed, and you laughed, loud and bright and unselfconcious as your pants dropped to the floor.

 _“So far,_ ” you corrected, “we’ve still got the rest of the award season to go.”


	25. a soft sunrise {Roger Taylor}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lazy, early morning and a soft boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1130 words. somft. i looked at a picture of roger in a hoodie and almost started crying i love him. this wasn’t requested but like whatever this is a thing, i do have requests for soft roger but i can’t find the specific requests, if i find them i’ll link them here.

You blink awake, bleary-eyed, to the sound of the kettle boiling in the other room, and Roger’s quiet swearing followed by the closing of the fridge door. You’re still adjusting to being awake, the pink light peeking through the curtains letting you know that it couldn’t be long since sunrise.

Roger’s stifling a yawn as he comes in, frowning a little, just wearing a pair of jeans, to which you can’t help but hum, sleepy and approving at sight. There’s a moment, a beat in time where his eyes meet yours and his whole expression, the frustration he’s holding in his shoulders, it melts away.

“‘morning,” he grins from where he’s standing by a pile of clothes beside his cupboard, mostly clean, just not clean enough to go back into the wardrobe, and he doesn’t even bother touching the pile before he makes his way over to you.

“‘s early,” you grumble, voice rough with sleep, propping yourself up on your elbow to lay on your side as he joins you, half leaning on the bed beside you. “Everything alright?” Softer this time, your forehead creases with concern, the fingers of your free hand ghosting up his bare arm; he can’t help but laugh, however.

“Of course, just need to get milk, we’re out.” He assured quietly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He pulls away, smile gentle, but you can’t help the gently needy whine that escapes your lips as your grip on his shoulder becomes firmer and you lean up, chasing his lips. There’s something about that, about the way he says ‘ _we’,_ it’s technically hit flat, his home, but you’d been all but living there for the past few months, and every time he makes mention of it, it sets your soul alight, just a little.

He can’t help himself, leaning into you and pressing his lips to yours, before trailing kisses along your jaw and down your throat as you sink back into the mattress with a pleased hum. 

“Stay,” and your hand comes to rest at his waist, nails grazing against his smooth skin, pausing for just a moment before hooking your fingers in his belt loop, “no-where’s open,  _stay_.” His gaze is fondly amused as he looks down at you, succumbing to your touch and climbing onto the bed, sitting back on your thighs with a knee either side of your hips. 

“Petrol station,” he counters with, smirking, and you groan, leaning up, but he’s got a hand gentle on your shoulder, keeping you flush against the mattress, “I won’t be long, love.” And he leans in again, pressing himself flush against you, his smile sharp and pleased, as you still still strain to meet his lips.

“Promise?” Voice teasing, you grin before he presses a quick kiss to his lips.

“Of course, what, you think I’m gonna head out for a pack of smokes and never return like some dad in a soap?” There’s a beat that follows as your face twists into an amused grin as you resist the urge to make some sort of comment involving the word ‘ _daddy’._ Roger seemed to realise what he’d said as soon as the words left his mouth, and he watches the crass impulse as it passes through your mind, he turns an amusing shade of pink- “ _don’t.”_ You just grin wider.

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“You didn’t have to,” he huffs, half smiling, and climbing off of you.

“No, come on, I didn’t-” you sit up, scrambling from the bed as he makes his way to the clothes pile again.

“Needy today, aren’t you?” He smirks, picking up a hoodie from the pile and pulling it on as you reach out for him, arm snaking around his hips. 

“You really complaining?” You asked, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw. A thoughtful hum escapes him as he plays innocent, despite his wandering fingertips ghosting up beneath the oversized shirt you’re wearing as pyjamas. 

“Never,” and he gives you a teasing squeeze before stepping back and making his way out of the room. Calling out after him, all you get is his airy response of, “I have to get milk!” 

“Tease!” You call after him, and all he does is laugh as he closes the door to the flat. 

The light streaming through the windows turns to gold where you watch if from the bed once you’ve crawled back under the covers, and sooner rather than later, Roger returns, humming to himself, and you hear the kettle click back on.

When he peeks into the room, carefully quiet as if he’s worried that you’re still asleep, he’s met by your warm, pleased grin.

“You want tea or coffee?” He asks, and you grin, nodding. Once he disappears again, you actually get to your feet, pulling on your sweatpants where you’d thrown them on the end of the bed the night before, and follow him out.

“I could have brought it in to you,” he offers, leaning back against the counter, his arms folded as he regards the way you sleepily shuffle over to him, you hum, shrugging as you stop a few feet from him. “What?” It’s not uncomfortable, the silence that stretched between you two, the way you look him over, assessing him without judgement, gaze settling on the soft, dark blue hoodie he was wearing.

“I like this,” your voice is soft as you say it, stepping up and toying with the hem just a little, leaning into him as he wraps his arms around you.

“I’ve had this for ages,” he muses, but all you can bring yourself to do is hum in response, tucking yourself closer to him as he tightens his embrace around you, “what’s gotten into you this morning?” And maybe he has a point, you’re not usually so cuddly; perhaps it’s the early hour, perhaps it’s how soft he looks in that hoodie, perhaps it’s something else entirely, or even just the faint smell of the coffee grounds sitting dry in the cup, waiting for the boiling water. 

“Dunno.”

“Dunno?” He parrots back with a smirk, and you wrinkle your nose at him.

“Dunno.” You say it with an air of finality and he bursts out laughing, and you go to protest amid his laughter, but then he’s kissing you again, smiling against your lips. It’s warm and insistent, and you let yourself moan against his lips. 

“I love you.” It’s soft, barely a whisper as you move away, your lips hovering barely inches from his, before you grin, pecking him quickly, “you muppet.”

“I love you too.”


	26. first aid {Vince Neil}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked:attending to vince’s bruises after the fight from their first gig?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is pacing or tension? i don’t know so don’t ask me. i wrote this whole thing at work tho and it was fun. Also probs not what the prompt was asking for but whatever. it is what it is.

You watch it go down, in your best mate’s fucking bar, this bunch of glam rock wannabes fronted by some pretty boy-asshole who you don’t recognize, a bass player who you think you’ve seen before but his name escapes you, a fuckin’  _kid_ by the look of him, and Mick Mars, a veteran of this pub, in and out of different bands every few months, and also someone who should have more sense than to team up with this bunch of hair metal dickheads. Of course, perhaps you were biased against them seeing as they started a brawl instead of playing their damn instruments less than two minutes after getting onstage. Their sound was alright, but their attitude needed work.

“Alright, who got hit?” Your first aid kit was severely lacking, instead of antiseptic you’ve got a bottle of cheap whiskey that could double as paint thinner, and maybe a few bandages, creams, and bandaids. Mick gives you a longsuffering look, but he stayed out of it so you just roll your eyes at him, a gesture he seems to appreciate, given his amused half smile as the other three are all sitting around basking in the afterglow of their first successful performance.

“Me! I did!” The drummer crows the fact with pride, and shows you the bruise on his cheek.

“You’re not bleeding; you’ll live.” You’re already beginning to rue the day you ever got your first aid license, as this is sadly not the first bar brawl you’ve had to do damage control for. The drummer looks a little put out by your blunt dismissal, but you honestly just want to get back to the bar, away from the green room they’re in that always somehow smells like sweat and sex, no matter how much you vacuum and scrub.

“You.” You point at the blonde one and he breaks out into a smile, aggravating his split lip though he doesn’t seem to care. “C’mere.” Curling your finger in an unmistakably ‘come here’ gesture, you lead him from the room, out to the better lighting and vaguely better smell of the hallway.

There’s a few moments of silence when you’re dragging a little table over so you can put down the sad little first aid kit and bottle of impromptu antiseptic, and the singer sits on the table without even asking. You give a sigh.

“Enjoy the show?” He’s smug, already a little drunk, and when you finally look to him, his gaze snaps to yours where you’ve just caught him looking you over.

“You weren’t shit,” you concede, and he laughs, loud and sharp, and he leans back on his hands, watching you as you pull out a few tissues and put a bit of the whiskey on them.

“Glowing praise; not a fan of rock?” He doesn’t sound put out but he makes a show of sulking just a little, “maybe you’re in the wrong bar.” And his smile tightens as he bites back a hiss of pain as you gently move back some of the hair by his temple to dab at the cut by his hairline.

“Not a fan of brawls in my bar,” you muse, the anger in your expression dissipating as you focused on your task. He’s quietly amused, watching your expression.

“You’re good at playing nurse,” he teases, and when your gaze meets his you realise how far you’ve leaned in, how close your face is to his. Pretty boy asshole certainly is correct, emphasis on pretty.

“I’m good at a lot of things,” and you don’t mean it to sound as flirty as it does, but he’s laughing and leaning back further anyways, “hey,” you’re frowning again, “get back here.” At least he obligingly moves back into your reach without too much more leaning from you; you still haven’t moved back.

“I’m sure you are,” and he definitely means that as coy as he sounds. His pupils are blown wide and he wets his lips, and something about the way he’s looking at you has your pulse beating just a little faster.

“What’s your name?” You ask, suddenly pulling away and taking a whole step to the side to pointedly rifle through the medical kit, despite the fact you know exactly where the cream and band aids are.

“Vince,” you can hear him grinning, and he’s quick to follow it up with, “and ‘ _your bar_ ’? Quite a nice little setup you have here, though I didn’t think the owner would do something as menial as path up bar brawl victims,” he snickers.

“My friend’s the owner, but he’s all business,” you admit, finally moving back to him. Without asking, he opens his legs for you to stand between them, shifting closer to the edge of the table. It’s not necessary, but if you’re being honest, the viritol in you had died down and you’re rather enjoying the attention; something about him is just magnetic, no wonder they’ve got him as lead singer. “I’m the personable one.”

“Yeah, clearly,” he’s teasing you again, testing his luck with his hands now on your hips, tipping his head just a little to give you better access to his injury.

“Well usually I’m not dealing with dickheads who start fights in my bar.” You counter, and Vince’s grin widens.

“You’re not helping your case.”

“And yet, I still get the sense that you wanna get into my pants,” you half grin, meeting his cheeky gaze for a half second before putting the band aid over the injury.

“With someone as hot as you I can’t help myself; you could have the personality of an angry goat and I’d still probably be a little interested,” he’s probably too honest, but that somehow endears you more to him.

“Pretty  _and_ shallow, what an unsurprising combination.” You tsk with mock disapproval, coming to realise you’re actually enjoying his company the moment you look him over for any other injuries and all you can see is the way he’s smiling at you, almost  _pleased_. You put the cream and band aid wrapper on the table beside him, but don’t step away.

“You want ice for those bruises?” You asked gently, and he pulls you a little closer.

“Does that mean you’ve gotta leave?” He raises an eyebrow at you, already seeming to know he’s won you over.

“Unfortunately.”

“Then I think I’ll survive without it,” and as he’s speaking, you do actually take the moment to look him over one more time, before reaching up, running a thumb over his lower lip, pulling away just before you get to the split there.

“And this one? Anything I can do to help?” You’re so close now, one of your hands braced on his thigh as you lean in unnecessarily closely, though neither of you are complaining. He’s got his hands on your ass now, and you take only the barest moment to think about where you are,  _who_ you are, and what you realise you’d like to do to this pretty boy asshole. How’d you even get here? Do you even care?

“In you  _professional, medical_ opinion; what’s the diagnosis?” He’s holding back a laugh, holding back himself you can tell. For a long time you hummed, dragging out the moment, your fingers tapping against his thigh.

“I think you’re an idiot whose pride got him punched; it’s incurable.”

“You want us to come back and play here or not?” Vince’s eyebrows shoot up and your own smile stretches into something amused and sharp.  _Clearly_ he still thinks he was in the right in that fight, though you’re just against the situation as a whole, if you never see this band again it’s no skin off your nose. You shrug, a little coy, wetting your own lips in anticipation, a gesture which Vince’s eyes follow closely. Maybe he lets the fight go, maybe he just sees something in you he likes, maybe he just stops thinking with his brain and starts thinking with his dick, because then he’s kissing you, crushing his lips to yours. He tastes like blood and booze and tobacco and he’s  _insistent_ , almost hungry as he pulls you in, hops off the table and into your space, still thrumming with energy from the show. He doesn’t waste time, tugging your shirt from where it’s tucked into your jeans.

“I’m not fucking you in this hallway,” you pull away, but the moment you do he’s kissing down your jaw.

“Spoil sport.” He mutters against your skin, a little breathless, and you lace your fingers through his hair, tugging his head back up so he could look you in the eyes.

“I work here; what good’s a staff bathroom if I can’t use it once in a while?” You smirk, and he laughs, stepping away from you for just a moment.

“You drive a hard bargain, lead the way.”


	27. people change {Vince Neil}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @champagneandspice asked: hey! I adore your writing!!! could u please do a one shot but in the form of an article ? you’d be writing it as if you worked for people magazine or something like that. could u pls write ab the “speculated rumors” ab vince and I dating are true?? u could insert pictures or whatever u like. thank u <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love!! This style!! Of Writing!! also probably not what you were asking for, but i had fun and i hope you do too. i really sort of like this world/reader persona i’ve built?? i even added a few pictures for effect lmao. hope it’s enjoyable. i don’t usually do tags for one-shots but @cosmicsskies and @crazylittlethingcalledobsession asked and im too giddy to refuse.

WHAT THE F*** DO YOU THINK? -  _Mötley Crüe_  singer Vince Neil and  _Joan Jett & The Blackhearts_ newest guitarist Y/N Y/L/N spotted getting cosy after  _Crüe’s_ Atlanta show last Saturday? Does this hint at a collaboration between two bands, or is this more personal than professional? [Read more on Page 10…] 

* * *

“What the f*** do you think?”

If you’re a woman working in or around the rock and roll music scene in the past half a decade, you’ve probably heard these words, or some variation of them, if you’ve come within a ten foot radius of the glam metal juggernauts Mötley Crüe; Nikki Sixx, Tommy Lee, Mick Mars, and their blonde, boyish singer Vince Neil. They’re crass by reputation, however this is unsurprisingly true to life, though if you were interested in reading an expose regarding the number of gigs they’ve done while high, or how many hotel rooms they’ve set fire to, there’s innumerable gossip rags and magazines covering those particular scandals, including at least two Rolling Stone articles in the past two years, and we’re not here to retell old stories. 

When attending their concert in Atlanta last week, which I highly recommend; if given the opportunity, and you enjoy their music, see Mötley Crüe live, they give an almost unparalleled live performance, in my humble opinion as a music journalist of almost a decade, I was fortunately privy to the moment that sparked debate and controversy within the rock music gossip sphere. After the show, while I was made to wait at the stage door, their manager Doc Mcghee was kind enough to invite me to the afterparty. There, at the stage door, restless fans were held at bay, young men in black leather pants, emulating their idols, young women in barely anything at all, there to catch attention and garner the same invitation that I had received, and when the band themselves appear, it’s as if the gates of Hell had opened; the  _screaming_ I heard, ladies and gentleman.

First through the doors is Mars, already looking like he needs a shot or a nap, and he dodges more than one bra thrown his way, giving me a longsuffering look as he passes. To be that exhausted by fame is on a level I can’t even begin to comprehend. He’s on the tour bus which will take us to the hotel bar for drinks almost before anyone else is even out of the building.

Next comes what the fans have affectionately dubbed ‘The Terror Twins’, Sixx and Lee, both carrying a beer each, followed by several very pretty women who head to the bus whilst the musicians take the time to say high to their fans, signing various body parts and generally taking the time to interact with the more hardcore of their following who were waiting in the cold night air. They’re enough of a distraction that one might have missed the final band member, Vince Neil, laying uncharacteristically low, and who had actually been preceded by a surprising figure; Y/N Y/L/N, the most recent addition to  _Joan Jett & The Blackhearts_ as their rhythm guitarist. 

And this, dear readers, is the moment I decide to write the first gossip piece of my life.

As someone who regularly set fire to the copies of  _Hollywood Star_  my then-housemate had been getting delivered to our apartment back when I first began my journalistic career, the idea of writing an article based on speculation about the sexual conduct of celebrities was an idea I rejected out of hand. I’d told myself I had  _integrity_. 

But then my proto-punk loving heart betrayed me, as I recalled Y/L/N’s lyrics from my favourite song of her’s,  _Sucker Punch, ‘speculate / scream my name / my heart, my love, baby it’s a game / they call me heartless, fancy-free / as if anyone’s meant something to a girl like me’._ Y/L/N has been credited as the sole writer for the single, under her band at the time,  _Nuclear Patricide_ , who had garnered a cult following that has been credited as an idol for Joan Jett herself. After the  _Nuclear Patricide_ ’s split in early ‘83, it’s been relative radio silence from the writer and lead guitarist until  _Joan Jett & The Blackhearts_ announce her as their newest addition, and she’s been with them for almost two years since.

  


[ _ID: Stills from_ Nuclear Patricide _’s music video for_ Sucker Punch,  _1980, known for the appearance of then-break out star Jamie Lee-Curtis. Editor’s Note: Y/L/N did not appear in the music video herself._ ]

So, upon seeing Y/L/N trying to keep a low profile whilst exiting a gig she clearly was not playing at, without any of her own bandmates to keep her company, I must confess I began to wonder, to speculate about the nature of her relationship with  _Mötley Crüe._ She’s adamantly and publicly denounced romantic relationships in her work and in her public appearances up until her split from her original band, so has anything changed in the past few years?

Back at the hotel, I find myself weaving in amongst groupies and fanboys. My dark jeans and leather jacket act as a camouflage in this den of debauchery; I’ve worn professional clothing to this kind of thing before, and it usually doesn’t go over well; if the band sees a reporter there’s a sense of immediate hostility in what’s meant to be a safe space, relatively speaking, however, I’ve found that blending in, and making it clear I’m not on the offensive makes them drop their guard enough that they’ll give an honest interview. 

At least until a pretty girl walks past.

Neil and Y/L/N are nowhere to be spotted as I finally take a seat with a table that has neither cocaine nor a woman on it, and once I’ve ordered a drink and looked over my notes, someone actually joins me of their own accord. It’s Tommy Lee, who, to my surprise, recognises me from the last time  _Crüe_  had played in town. 

He talks about the tour, about how exciting it’s been and how he loves Atlanta, but he’s losing focus very quickly, not surprisingly since his name is being called by other tables every few moments, and there’s a faint dusting of telltale white powder around his nose. He promises ‘ _see you ‘round’_ [sic] and then he’s off again. However, it’s as he leaves that I spot Y/N coming from a room by the back of the bar, and I make my move.

Mars has, as I’ve been told, already retired for the night, Lee is up to his eyes in cocaine, Sixx already has his dick out under his table judging by the look of him, and Neil is surprisingly MIA, so Y/L/N is easy to spot as the odd one out.

Not nearly as f***ed up or strung out as the rest of them, I watch her order a jack and coke, and down the drink mere moments after receiving it, before she turns to me. It takes her barely a second before she correctly identifies me as a reporter. I ask if she remembers meeting me, back in ‘82, she says no, but that she can pick a reporter from a mile away. 

People still fawn over her, pretty girls and pretty boys alike, her aloofness drawing them in, and I’d forgotten how overwhelming it was to be this close to her. She kicks a fanboy and a groupie who are messily groping each other out of a booth and we take their seats.

This is meant to be about  _Mötley Crüe,_ and I try to tell her as such, but she just gives me a thin smile.

 _“Then why did you come find_ me _?”_

And she gives me that  _stare_ , you know, the one from the cover of  _Nuclear Patricide_ ’s final album,  _Treason Is A Girl’s Best Friend._ It’s that piercing stare of hers that makes you feel like she knows everything you’ve ever done wrong in your life. 

I ask about her relationship with  _Mötley Crüe,_ and to my relief she looks away.

She’s candid about admitting she’s travelling with them, but  _not_ touring, right up until I ask her about her relationship with each member of the band specifically.

 _“Mick’s fun; he’s very talented and easily riled up. They’re all very talented of course, but Mick’s dynamic, [because] of his age and everything, is interesting within the group [sic] and I enjoy watching it all play out. He’s smacked Tommy a few times.”_ I’m assured that nine times out of ten he deserved it. 

She’s filled with glowing praise for both Sixx and Lee in turn, and even Doc Mcghee, but Neil she is oddly silent about. He’s the first of the band she’d met; he’d seen her play a few times with  _The Blackhearts_ and has admitted to enjoying her work in previous interviews when she’s been brought up, as the pair have been spotted together before. Well, she’s been spotted with the band before. Here is where she starts, to my surprise, to get antsy. So the rumours, which I had thought to be incredibly false given her history and general attitude, have more basis than she likes to let on.

And then she gets defensive.

He’s like cocaine; everyone’s doing him, it’s just the industry; no-one’s going to judge her for a fling. She does not appear to take comfort in the sentiment.

_“People change.”_

I ask her what she means. She refuses to clarify and leaves. Perhaps I pushed too far, but now I feel like a detective, and like I only have one more person I need to talk to. But perhaps I should have eased myself into talking about Y/L/N to Vince himself, but I’ll have to admit, between Y/L/N leaving and finding Neil, I may have done a bit of socialising with Sixx, which I recommend recreationally, and also if you have a high tolerance for most things.

_“I don’t think we’re any of your f***ing business.”_

Neil does not mess around, and apparently she’d already spoken to him about our earlier meeting. I leave it be, spend the night enjoying the festivities with Sixx and Lee when I can, leaving just before the sun comes up. 

Some of you may be thinking this is dissatisfying, that you came into this article wanting me to confirm or dismiss the speculated relationship between Vince Neil and Y/N Y/L/N, but I can’t. Neither of them would speak to me, and I can only leave you with a list of things I saw that night, and you can make up your own mind.

\- The room Y/L/N had exited from when I first spotted her is the same room Neil left less than five minutes later as we were talking. I went to investigate later; it’s a supply closet.

\- After my encounter with Neil, and I’d stayed clear of them, whenever I would spot either of them, the other was almost always within arm’s reach. Make of that what you will.

\- He definitely did a line of coke off her thigh at about three in the morning.

\- I asked both Sixx and Lee about it. Lee’s response was ‘ _loud’_ with something akin to a knowing smirk, and Sixx’s was ‘ _he’s a lucky bastard’_ and when I ask him to clarify he just says ‘ _flexible’_ and climbs to the next booth over where they’ve been asking him to do a line _;_ I’m not even sure what to make of it, but personally I think it’s pretty damning.

\- Readers, they were all over each other, I apologise for throwing my professionalism out the window for a moment, but if I’m being honest I couldn’t look to a secluded corner of the room without there being a 40% chance of seeing Vince and Y/N. It got worse as the night went on. Believe me.

So, while I don’t believe there is set to be a collaboration between Joan Jett and _Mötley Crüe,_ I do come barring good news for those fans who had been speculating regarding Y/L/N’s relationship with the hair metal band’s lead singer. So are they together? Are they dating? Though neither party will publicly state anything, I’ll leave you with my thoughts, my observations, and the oft spoke words of the man himself;

_What the f*** do you think?_


	28. compound regret {Nikki Sixx}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re always the one cleaning up after Motley Crue, that was your job. You didn’t expect an apology, or anything really, but some reassurance that they liked having you around, that they didn’t just think of you as some hard ass or buzzkill would be nice once in a while. Except when that reassurance comes around, Nikki doesn’t exactly remember giving it. In fact, he’s worried he’s told you something far more incriminating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @yourqueeniac sent me a message about Douglas!Nikki and honestly the writing demon reached through the screen and possessed me I guess. this is not the direction i thought it would go.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Nikki wakes up in the middle of the afternoon on couch seat at back of the tour bus, his stomach lurching as they’re speeding down the highway. He doesn’t remember how he got there, just knows that he needs to get to the bathroom before everything he drank last night ends up on the floor of the bus. You’re almost knocked flying where you’ve come to offer a bottle of water in his mad dash for the bathroom, while Vince and Tommy are already laughing, and Mick takes the now vacated space, opting for a nap in the sunlight.

“Good morning!” You sing, loud and purposefully off key to the obviously hung over musician, and though he tries to tell you to shut it, he can’t get the words out before he starts retching into the toilet. You seem… far more cheerful than usual, well, compared to other mornings where one of the band members wakes up puking and drenched in sweat and regret. 

By the time he staggers back out, looking marginally more human and alive, you’re thankfully drawing close to the next destination, and he’s just glad he’d managed to sleep through most of the travelling, because what little he has left already feels like hell. 

“How do you feel?” You ask sweetly, sitting at the table beside Doc, who’s reading the paper and pointedly not looking at Nikki. The bassist is confused for a moment, frowning at where you’re smiling so brightly up at him, obviously pleased, though the reason as to why is a complete mystery to him. 

“Like I never want to drink again,” Nikki grumbles, taking a seat beside you, reaching for the half empty bottle of whiskey on the other side of the table anyways, ignoring the water you offer him. 

“You smell like a dumpster, which is surprising since you didn’t even throw up on yourself last night,  _how do you do it?_ ” You smirk, your nose wrinkling a little, but you seem amused by this more than anything else. Doc huffs out a laugh but doesn’t look up. 

“How the fuck should I know?” Nikki unscrews the lid of the bottle and flicks it at Doc, who dodges out of the way easily. He takes a long sip. “The fuck even happened last night?”

“So you don’t remember drinking that rocket-fuel vodka shit and declaring yourself King of Hell?” You give him the biggest shit-eating grin as he grimaces and takes another swig of whiskey. “I’m pretty sure you’d already gone hard on the zombie dust so I don’t blame you.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Nikki grumbled again, averting his gaze. That sounds very believably like something he’d do, though he must have drunk a lot more than usual to have him knocked out for so long, and for him to have received such a metaphorical kick to the balls the moment he woke up. And that  _still_ didn’t go about explaining your cheery mood, you, Doc’s long suffering assistant who often had the unpleasant job of wrangling the rowdy stragglers of the band into bed when they found themselves, on the off chance, sleeping by themselves. 

So he’s pretty sure you’re the reason he’d ended safely back on the bus, but by the sounds of it, he’d made you work for it- so  _why_ weren’t you hating his guts like usual after a night like that?

“You’d make a terrible King.” Mick interjects from the back of the bus in all his deadpan seriousness, though when you chance a look back at him, he’s got one eye cracked open, smiling ever so slightly.

“Fuck you,” Nikki snaps back, holding his head in his hands. 

“’be a great King of the Jackasses, maybe,” Doc adds, and turns the page of the paper. Nikki doesn’t even have it in him to reply. 

It’s five, around the time they get to the next tour stop and they’ve checked into the hotel for the night, that that a sinking suspicion creeps it’s way into Nikki’s heart. 

He’d  _said_ something.

He must have. The secret he’d been keeping essentially since the first moment on tour, when he’d begun to spend time in close proximity to you, the stupid little crush that had been festering away in his heart since you and he had joked about while carrying a pantless, passed out Tommy to bed after the very first gig. Last night, Drunk Nikki must have said something. 

On paper, it sounds like it would be a good thing, except that Nikki was well aware that he would be profoundly disappointing in a romantic capacity, despite what his heart wants. He knows his self control is garbage, and that he’d end up screwing up  _somehow_ , in any number of various ways, and god he loves the way you’re smiling right now, but he can’t help but fear it’s from false hope.

“You okay? Everything sorted and ready for tonight?” It’s like a routine, everyone gets their hotel rooms set up before heading to the venue for the night, and you, like clockwork, would always go around to every room and make sure each of the boys was sorted.

“Did I say something to you last night?” Nikki asks, sitting at the edge of his bed, frowning with a surprising intensity. To your eye at least, he’d managed to mostly recover from the morning, and you stepped into the room.

“You said a lot of things last night,” it came out amused, but did nothing to quell the nervousness in Nikki’s chest. 

“Like what?”

A long pause follows and you step into the room, letting the door shut gently behind you. He’s looking at his hands, can’t bring himself to actually turn his gaze upon you, but when you finally speak, your voice is surprisingly soft.

“You really don’t remember, do you?” And as you say it, he can feel the fear rising in him, finally looking up to where you’re regarding him with a look of concern. “I was trying to convince you to put your pants back on,” already a bad way to start a story potentially about feelings, Nikki considers, and you continue, “and I apologised for being a hardass and a buzzkill-”

“You’re not.” Nikki’s response is automatic, and his heart lifts as your expression automatically brightens.

“Yeah, that’s what you said then.” There’s a silence that follows, and your regarding him with an almost fond sadness, lips parted like there’s something else you want to say, but you seem to think better of it, just giving him a small smile. “You  _did_ insist I stay with you, which I did; I didn’t realise you were a clingy sleeper.” You half laugh, and Nikki feels himself turn red, averting his gaze once more. 

“Why the bus? I had a room-”

“You lost your room keys, and honestly it was just easier.” You shrugged. After a beat, you took a deep breath, smiling brightly at him. “So you ready for tonight?”

The show goes great, goes  _incredibly_ , screaming and cheering from the fans, lights blinding overhead, a mind almost whited-out with pre-show blow, and his body’s on autopilot as he plays to the adoring crowd. But there you are, side of stage, cheering and beaming and all he can think about. 

Something about your conversation earlier had been playing in his mind, you’d been telling the truth, but part of him knows it’s not the whole truth, and something tells him that it’s part of the truth that you’re keeping hidden that’s making you smile so bright, that’s responsible for the new, relaxed set of your shoulders.

The surprise, however, comes when you’re at the after party; he knew it was your night off but you usually spent it catching up on sleep. But here you were, chatting with some groupie, a drink in hand, looking like you’re actually enjoying yourself.

Nikki tries not to bother you, to let you enjoy yourself without the thought of your work looming in the background. He manages for about an hour, maybe a little less, but eventually he spots you heading for the door and he’s moving without thinking; if you’re leaving, he needs to say  _something,_ even if he’s not sure what. 

“Are you- you okay?” He’s surprised when the words stumble out of his mouth, and you seem surprised to see him there at all.

“Yeah- I- do you need anything?” Brow furrowing, you step towards him where he’s still holding your wrist. It’s immediate, despite the buzz you’ve got going on, your mind immediately snaps into work mode, worrying about him even when you don’t need to. It endeared you to him without you even realising.

“Sorry,” he frowned for a moment, trying to get his words together in his mind, and your expression was already softening, “about last night and everything; I don’t know what happened.”

“You’re a rockstar, you don’t need to apologise, it’s part of the job,” you try to alleviate his stress, hand coming to rest on his chest, though the contact surprises him.

“That’s fucked- that’s fucked up. Like I know we do fucked up shit, but to not expect an apology? Fucked.” He finds himself rambling, and he sees on your face that he’s just drunk, spouting the first thing that comes to his mind, “What else did I say to you last night?” His thoughts then come to an abrupt halt as he watches you for an answer. 

“Doesn’t matter, Nikki-” you try, but he’s frowning now. You just seem…  _tired_.

“Yes it does, okay, I’m worried that I told you I love you or some shit and I don’t wanna fill you with false hope or any garbage like that!” The words spill out too fast for him to stop them. “I was out of my fucking mind, I just-”

“You told me you were grateful to have me around.” You scowled, wrenching your hand from his grip. “That’s all.”

He watches you go, weaving through the groupies who had spilled out into the hall, and something about it has his heart sinking. He tries, god he tries to enjoy the after party, but his drunk mind is traitorous and decides to now discover the concept of guilt, and drown him in it.

When he knock on you door, you ask who it is, and immediately tell him to fuck off once you find out who it is.

“It’s an emergency.” He tries, and he hears your loud, begrudging sigh, and then footsteps, and then the sound of the door unlocking.

“ _What_?” You sigh; you’re wearing pyjamas, specifically an oversized Motley Crue shirt and little silk shorts.  “It’s my night off, Nikki, what’s the emergency?” You raise an eyebrow at where he’s giving you a surprised look over. He’s got half a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “Go to bed,” your voice is gentle but you go to shut the door anyhow.

“You’re good to me; better than anyone like me fuckin’ deserves,” he starts, and already your breath is caught in your throat. It’s moments like this, affirmations that the rockstar you’d come to adore actually spared you more than a passing thought, might actually like having you around, instead of the just thinking of you as the nuisance that tried to make him sober up and put on pants, that made you feel a little warmer inside, as stupid as that may sound from the outside.

The thing is, it’s not that you’re blind to the bassist’s exploits, quite the opposite in fact, but there was a small part of you that had developed feelings for him, for the almost admirable way he tries to prove himself to be hardcore, to the softer, goofier side you only saw brief glimpses of when he didn’t try so hard to be the person everyone thought he was. 

You were under no illusions regarding who he was, you wouldn’t trust him as far as you could throw him; you’d spent too much time with him to think differently, but your heart had been traitorous from the outset.

In all honesty, you knew why he’d said what he’d said earlier, about false hope, both of you too self aware to expect this to go well for more than a day or so before  _something_ terrible happened. And you knew he knew this too.

But he’s here, in your doorway.

“I’m paid to clean up your messes, Sixx,” you try, but you step back into the room, gesturing for him to come inside.

“You and everyone else on tour,” Nikki rolls his eyes, “none of them care half as much as you.” He paused, closing the door behind himself and leaning against it, watching as you took a seat on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t have to stay with me last night, anyone else would have just told me to fuck off, handcuff me so I couldn’t get away,” and he’s got you there.

“I am too good to you,” you’re still trying to keep up your annoyed front, but it’s crumbling quickly, “shouldn’t you be at the after party?”

“Thought I’d cut out the middle man, come to you instead of getting you to pick me up from some gutter in a few hours.” He’s smiling a little at that, taking a swig from his bottle. Part of you wants to argue that it’s your night off, but you both know his assumption is fairly spot on. You can’t help but laugh a little, shooting him a look that is both somehow exasperated and grateful. 

His answering smile has relief at the edges, and he steps forwards, putting the bottle on the counter of the kitchenette, and walking around to flop down on the empty side of the bed, looking up at the ceiling.

“Why’d you really come here?” 

He looks at you, frowning slightly, hesitating like he doesn’t want to admit the reason, perhaps breaking his tough-guy with no real feelings facade.

“Felt bad seeing you leave like that.” It’s far more honest than you were expecting, which must show on your face because he’s smirking. “I don’t feel bad about a lot of shit so you must be a special case,” and  _oh_ , okay there’s a fluttering in your chest and he’s grimacing like he regrets admitting that much.

“I suppose you’d probably collapse if you started feeling regret for everything you should,” you half laugh, and he makes a noise of indignance. But then you’re laying on your side beside him, propped up on your elbow, grinning at him. “Hey, can I -?” You’re gently holding his chin, just enough that his gaze meets yours.

“Should I regret this?” He asks, a scoff in his words, but your grin just widens in response. 

“Should I?” You tease in response, and he can’t keep up the annoyed act, his expression turning to a cheeky smile as he props himself up, out of your grip and into your space. He’s so close to you, you can see the smudge of eyeliner still around his eyes, black streaks across his cheeks where he hadn’t managed to wipe all of his makeup away, and you can’t help but smile softly at the sight; it’s surprisingly humanising. And he likes watching the way you smile.

“Probably.” He snickers, but that’s when your gaze meets his, surprised and bright in equal measures, but he leans in. He tastes like whiskey, and something else a little heady that you can’t quite place, perhaps a fruity cocktail, maybe the remains of some pills or tabs he’d had once the show had ended; he tasted like something you knew you should regret, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“We all like having you around,” he grins sharply, pulling back, “but me especially.” 

“You’re such a suck up,” you rolled your eyes, laying back against the bed and huffing out a laugh, as if trying to come to terms with everything that was happening. And then he’s shifting to hover above you, still smiling, though it’s fond this time.

“Is it working?”

The way you pull him in to kiss him again is answer enough.


	29. sabotage {Machine Gun Kelly}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MGK has a Lot of tattoos, and Tommy Lee does not, at least not for most of when The Dirt is set. It’s no small task covering them all, but being assistant to the man who does cover them means you’re spending a good deal of time with the actor himself, and he’s not what you’re expecting… that is, if you actually knew what to expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so i went to im-fucking-db for Accuracy; shout out to: Christine Wada (costume designer), Corey Castellano (makeup department head), and Jorie Malan (key makeup artist). i reference these people in the fic, and i’ll be sure to explain who they are in the fic, but just in case you need a reminder, they’re also here.

“You want me to order  _how much foundation_?” It’s nine in the morning and you’ve barely stepped foot into the production meeting when Corey, the head of the makeup department, is tasking you with buying far more foundation than any one production should reasonably need. There’s overestimating and then there’s…  _this_. “What shade?” It’s with an air of defeat that you accept the company credit card and open your laptop.

“Not now; the cast have a fitting at midday, we’ll get shade match them then.” Corey assures, but you keep your laptop open anyways to make notes during the meeting. It passes by fairly uneventfully, at least for you, and by the time you break, it’s already eleven and you’re  _starving_. The corner store a few blocks away serves as a good a place to get lunch as any, and when you turn up to the fitting, half an hour early, you sit yourself in a corner to wait, and start on your sandwich of questionable quality.

You’re pricing bulk order foundation on your phone, still marvelling at the estimate you’d been given for how much you’d need, when the cast starts to filter in, well, the leads. Aside from being one of the makeup artists, you were also Corey’s assistant, which essentially just made you a glorified errand girl for the rest of the makeup team.

Half the costume department was already here, buzzing and agitated like wasps whose nest had been disturbed, and you’re careful to stay out of their way lest you get stung, or smacked for touching the wrong thing. So you’re grateful when the key makeup artist, Jorie, bursts in with ten minutes to spare, and gives a sigh of relief when she sees you. She’s holding a makeup kit in her hands, and when she begins to set up by a mirror out of the way of the costume department, you can see it’s mostly different shades of foundation, a few tubes of lipstick, more smokey eyeshadow-quad pallets than you can shake a stick at, some eyeliner, and a few face paint sticks.

She’s sticking photos to the mirror of the original band in full makeup, and that’s when you start to accept the fact that it’s going to be a  _very long day_.

“You’re late.” The costume department is not about to fuck around, and despite the fact that there’s still five minutes to midday, the costume designer is already reprimanding the newcomer. “And you can’t smoke in here.”

“It’s not midday-” whoever’s walked in is already arguing back, though as you look up, you see him -  _god he’s so tall, all limbs_ \- backtracking to stub his cigarette out on the screen door frame outside, you think you recognise him. Well, recognise him beyond the fact that you know he’s playing Tommy; you’d seen his bleach blonde head shot with the drummer’s name beneath it on the document Corey had sent out a few months ago, not that you’d given it a detailed look over. You just did what you were told, you could get to know the actors in the process. But as you’re looking at him, something about him does seem…  _familiar_.

“On time is late; five minutes early is cutting it too close,” Christine, the costume designer was fierce, fiercer than any of the actors had expected, though the rest were already trying to hold back their snickers as he got reprimanded before they’d even started, “ten minutes early is on time; gives us all time to get ready.” She finishes, and disappears into another room to start collecting costumes. 

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” he breathes, rolling his eyes and running a hand through his hair, as the tension dropped the moment she had left. The others were grinning, poking fun at him for getting in trouble before they’d even gotten on set.

“’Stina,” Jorie shouts to the costume designer, “who can we start with?” There’s a long pause, and much shuffling and clicking of coat hangers from the costume department.

“ _The tall one_ ,” Christine shouts back, and reemerges with an arm full of outfits, “Mister Booth, you first.” And the guy playing Nikki Sixx is lead to a dressing room. After a moment, an assistant carrying another set of outfits makes her way towards you and Jorie, but stops short, gesturing for the guy who had just been getting yelled at to step towards you.

“She meant you, Mister - uh, Kelly?” The nervous assistant doesn’t stay long, and scurries off to collect the two remaining actors, leading them through to the costume room as ‘ _the tall one’_ gives a thin smile as he makes his way towards you.

“Not a fan of being called  _Mister Kelly_?” Jorie asks with a knowing smile, and the tension breaks as he sits in the chair in front of the mirror, half smiling, “what about  _the tall one_?” And he actually laughs at that.

“Fuck no, just Colson’s fine,” he relaxes into the chair, gaze meeting yours where you’re scrutinising him in the mirror, partially because,  _damn, he really is familiar and you can’t put your finger on why_ , and partially because you’re trying to figure out what foundation he’d use. 

“Where do I know you from?”

“Y/N tell me you’re kidding,” Jorie mutters to you, looking up from where she’s leafing through a stack of photos of Tommy, “did you not read the brief-”

“Dude,” you hissed at her, ducking your head and bobbing down to rifle through the makeup box, “I read it  _months_ ago, sorry I don’t remember every actor whose name and headshot I see once.” 

“You’re so clueless sometimes; you’re meant to be the young one. Hip to the jive, etcetera?” Jorie’s laughing at her own phrasing, not that you can blame her. When you resurface, holding a makeup sponge and five little bottles of foundation all roughly the same shade with slight variations, she’s looking expectantly at you, one eyebrow raised, hand out and gesturing to the blonde in the makeup chair. “It’s-  _what is it?_ \- Machine Gun Kelly?” She says it like it’s meant to mean something.

“ _Gesundheit.”_

“It’s his  _name_ ,” she sighed deeply, pulling out a black stick of facepaint.

“Oh. Your parents hippies?” You ask, kneeling beside his chair and gently taking his arm so you could begin swatching the foundations on the back of his hand. After a beat you reconsider before he can get a word in edgewise, “I guess not if  _machine gun_ is in there.” 

“Stage name,” he explains, but there’s a smile you can hear in his words, amused, and it doesn’t leave his face as he watches you work in the mirror as Jorie is applying the face paint in two stripes on both his cheeks. 

“Hence,  _Colson_?” You ask, not looking up, feeling a little foolish, though the stage name is starting to sound familiar to you.

“Yeah, hence,  _Colson_.”

“Stage name for what?” You ask, but the thought is quickly taken over by the next and words spill from you before he can response, “were you all over Twitter a few months ago?  _I know_  I know you from somewhere.” 

He’s quick to clarify; he’s a rapper, sort of an actor,  _yes_ he was ‘ _all over twitter_ ’ a few months ago because of a ‘ _thing with Eminem_ ’, his words not yours.

“So you’re kind of famous, huh,” you muse, which makes him chuckle, “well sorry for my terrible introduction; I’m Y/N, by the way.” And you hold out your hand to shake his free one.

“Flirt on your own time, Y/N, did you get a colour match?” Jorie snaps, advancing on him with an eyeshadow brush held threateningly before her. He closes his eyes, but not before seeing you fluster at the accusation. “You’re the one with all the tattoos, aren’t you?” Jorie’s voice is quieter as she focuses on her work, and Colson tells her he is. The makeup artist steps back for a moment, her gaze appraising as she looks him over. “Could we get you to take your shirt off so Y/N can make sure she’s got the right colour foundation for your chest?” 

“I wasn’t  _flirting_ , I was shaking his damn hand, this isn’t the forties.” You fire back playfully, sitting back on your heels as Colson pulls off his sweater.

“The  _forties?_ How old do you think I am?” Jorie squawks, raising her eyebrows at you.

“For your sake, I’m not going to answer,” you say sweetly, accepting it as the makeup artist cuffs you gently on the back of the head, though both she and Colson are laughing at the exchange. 

As you look to him, it all starts to finally make sense, recognition dawning on your face as you take in the tattoos painting their way across his skin. All of it would need to be covered for certain scenes in the movie, which would require a  _lot_ of foundation. 

“You mind if I-” you awkwardly gesture to his chest with the sponge in your hand, and he sits back in the chair.

“Go for it,” and he closes his eyes again as Jorie comes in with the eyeshadow once more. As you apply the foundation near his collar, where there was a patch of uninked skin large enough to get a good comparison from, from the corner of your eye you see his lips twitch into a grimace for the barest moment.

“Sorry it’s cold,” you murmur, and he gives a smile, shrugging it off easily. You find a colour match easily, and it doesn’t take long, so you hand him a makeup wipe as Jorie starts talking at you, about how Corey himself would be handling the tattoo covering but that he wanted you there to help out. Of course you knew you’d need to be there, you’re his assistant after all, and after you note the shade required, you stand back and watch Jorie do her work. 

“I wish we had one of the wigs,” she muses, finally stepping away after she’d finished touching up his eyebrows, and you join her where she moves to stand behind his chair, all three of you looking at him in the mirror.

“You did good though,” you nod approvingly, leaning in a little to compare Colson’s reflection to the picture of Tommy taped to the mirror. 

“‘Stina,” Jorie calls, “do we have hair coming in later today?” 

“At three,” Christine calls back, and finally you look to where she’s standing by the changing room, putting pins into a leather harness that Douglas was wearing; it looked equal parts uncomfortable and sexy, though you know the second part was on purpose the first part would probably be helped by being surrounded by everyone in their own eighties, bordering-on-fetish costumes. You give him a thumbs up, expression pensive as you look him over, and look back to the photo of Nikki by the mirror. It does not seem to ease his discomfort. 

“Alright, sounds good, are you ready to send the next one over to us?” Jorie calls back, and after Christine tells Douglas to get changed out of his costume, you send Colson over to her.

“Don’t wipe that off, we can touch it up but we wanna see it with the wig,” you instruct, and he gives a mock salute and a grin, and you feel yourself smiling back. He was a lot…  _less_ than his stage name lead you to believe; he had a lot of energy just under the surface, that much you could tell, which meant he had great potential for his role as the over the top drummer, but he had an easy confidence, a level of professionalism that you’re grateful for, and a tattoo of a spider over his nipple, which you’re not sure of the significance of but it amuses you.

And, not to be shallow, though in this industry sometimes you can let yourself be, he’s hot. Though maybe you just had a thing for guys in eyeliner.

_Stop._

You were going to be getting up close and personal with him for the next few months as you would probably be helping Corey cover all his tattoos; thirsting over him in eyeliner is the  _last_ thing you’re allowed to think about doing. Above all else, you had to stay professional.

And, as the weeks went on, you were successful in that.

Mostly.

“What’s that one about?” You ask, poking at the tattoo of a London bus on his side. He jumped a little at the prod, giving you an amused but rather tired grin as Corey said your name like a warning. It was almost eight in the morning and he was trying to airbrush an even base coat of darker makeup across Colson’s back that you could apply foundation on top of. It was one of the days where he’d be filming shirtless, and ‘ _even_ ’ was hard to achieve if he kept moving.

“I got hit by a bus.”

“No you didn’t;  _shut up_!” Your eyes shine bright with amusement as you give him a disbelieving grin. He smiles back, sharp, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Did you think I got it immortalised on my fuckin’ body for fun? It hit me full force; I cracked the windshield,” and he sounds almost proud of it, and maybe he is, but you don’t seem to notice how his smile gets a little wider when he hears you laugh.

“And what about this one?” You poke at the spider over his nipple and he squirms a little. Corey says your name, more insistent this time, and you mutter out a half-assed apology, moreso waiting for Colson’s reply.

“That one’s just cool.” 

Maybe it’s the fact that you spend three hours with him a day  _at least,_ being weirdly close, which is par for the course when you’re applying foundation to his whole chest and sometimes his legs, but you’re becoming fast friends. Corey’s adamant that you don’t need to come in for the full three hours every day, but you’re there with a smile; rain, hail, or shine, just proclaiming that you enjoy your job when Colson asks about it. He calls you dedicated, and he’s mostly right; though if you’re being honest, part of you just enjoys spending time with him.

“Do you listen to  _any_ rap?” He asks, curious one day; Corey’s finished the airbrushing stage and has stepped out to grab a coffee from craft services, leaving you to start on the foundation.

“You mean, do I listen to  _you_?” You smirked, not looking away from where you’re dabbing the foundation down his arm.

“I  _know_ you don’t listen to me; you didn’t even know who I was ‘first time we met,” he snickered, and you considered for a moment, humming as you turn his arm over gently and start working on his forearm. 

“Well, okay, you’ve got me there, it’s just not my style, you know?” 

“That wasn’t really the question,” he’s smiling a little, and you huff out a laugh, conceding.

“I mean, I don’t  _hate_  it; if you’re really twisting my arm I’d say I sometimes listen to some of The Beastie Boys earlier stuff;  _Slow Ride, Posse in Effect, Paul Revere_?  _That_ I can jam out to.” And you look at him, guaging his reaction, biting back a laugh at his exaggerated wince.

“Not even  _Sabotage;_ so you really don’t listen to anything from this century?” He’s teasing you now, and you have to chuckle at that.

“ _Sabotage_ is  _okay_.” You roll your eyes, looking back at your work. “When you guys stopped using a brass section as accompaniment, that’s when you lost me; it just adds a certain…” you hum thoughtfully for a moment, taping your chin as if in deep thought. He actually laughs at that, and when you look up, you think your heart might skip a beat at the sight of his smile, “gravitas?  _Je ne sais quoi_?”

“So what  _do_ you listen to? What modern music has that,” and he puts on a terrible french accent to gently mock your earlier words, “ _je ne sais quoi_?” You shove him lightly, though there’s no malice in the move, or in your grin as you’re moving to stand in front of him. You start dabbing makeup across his chest and collar. It’s getting harder and harder to keep your thoughts professional when you’re so damn close to him, and he won’t stop smiling at you  _like that_.

Listing off a few bands from this decade seems to placate his curiosity enough, even if he rolls his eyes at some of your choices. Pausing for a moment, you tip your head side to side, considering.

“And classic rock, of course; not just the music, like the people behind it are fascinating, you know?”

Surprisingly, he’s quiet for a long moment.

“You must be enjoying this then,” he muses, though you can hear the suggestiveness in his tone and you swallow hard, refusing to take your eyes off your work.

“This production?” You deliberately refuse to read into his tone, though he was making it difficult when you could hear his smirk in his words, “yeah it’s been pretty great. Get to listen to a bunch of Crue all day? There’s definitely worse jobs in the world.” Snickering, you chance a look at him, though he’s not meeting your gaze, he’s still smiling as watches you work in the reflection of the mirror.

“What about you? Enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah, I mean it’s a challenge at times, but it’s a good one, you know? And I’m getting up at six every morning which is kind of a drag,” he grins though as you mutter out a quiet apology, “nah, don’t worry about it, ‘just part of the job. It’s good, it’s one-hundred.” And he’s looking at you, gaze a little unreadable where you’ve gone quiet as you work, focusing. 

 

It becomes a routine that you fall easily into; wake up at some ungodly hour, smash a coffee or an energy drink before spending three hours covering Colson’s tattoos with Corey, spend an extra hour and a half helping paint on Tommy’s tattoos if the scenes calls for it. Once he’s done, you tell Corey you’re going to get breakfast but you actually take a nap before you’re woken up by one of the production assistants telling you that you have twenty minutes before you need to be on set, so you race to the corner store and grab something cheap and eat it in a distracted haze as you head back to Corey’s trailer to pick up your makeup bag, before heading to set to be on standby for if any of the boys need touch-ups as filming starts. You’re there longer than most of the cast, staying back after filming’s wrapped for the day to help Colson take off his makeup and get the workspace prepped for the following day, crashing into bed almost immediately after getting home to rinse and repeat all over again. It was fun to begin with, but it was wearing you down quickly.

“Dude, you look dead on your feet.” Colson frowns as you yawn loudly, haphazardly blotting foundation onto his back.

“Y/N, it’s looking patchy, I need you to focus,” Corey’s frowning, but for a different reason as he looks over from where he’s made a start on the actor’s shoulder. You wave Corey off with a mumbled apology, rubbing at your eyes before recentering yourself and getting back to work. You meet Colson’s gaze in the mirror for a beat; he actually looks concerned, but you’re too tired to really care.

And okay, maybe, just maybe, seeing pretty girls drape themselves over the cast, over Colson, over all your hard work, it got irritating. Not that you begrudged those beautiful girls their job, it’s just that sometimes the oil or body glitter they’re covered in to play strippers would end up exposing some of Colson’s tattoos as they were all over him in certain scenes. Next to them, you were the one wearing jeans and a sweater, carrying a tote bag and looking like a child when you had to touch up his makeup. Everyone was always kind to you, of course, and you to them, but you think it’s more pity on their part; it’s common knowledge within the first week of filming how early you had to arrive, and how late you stayed back.

Some of the girls were incredibly talented actors. Probably. They were wasted in this film, reduced to eye candy and sex dolls, pretty beyond belief but not with any real substance. More than a few of them were dismissive of you, mean and sharp, because  _you_ weren’t the one responsible for  _their_ makeup, so you didn’t matter, and yeah, they were in intense, physically demanding scenes at times, but some of them seemed to just be catty for the sake of being catty. You tried not to let it get to you.

You really fucking tried.

Some of the extras had formed a sort of clique against you, which you found absolutely ridiculous, but they seemed to resent the fact that you and Colson got along. It had been a few weeks, starting with just snide comments in your general vicinity, but by now it had moved on to straight-up bullying. It was never around anyone  _important_ , least of all Colson, and when you’d told Corey about it, he’d just advised you to ignore it, as if it would help. 

So you were  _tired_ , both physically and mentally, and this actor had the gall to come up to you and call you  _desperate_. For  _doing your job_.

“Hey, can you kindly fuck off?” You snapped, fury blazing in your eyes as you fought to keep your tone level, “I’m trying to do my fucking job, it’s not my damn fault the director won’t give you any screentime-”

“Wow,  _harsh_.” Colson’s voice comes from somewhere to the left of you, and he doesn’t sound impressed. Of course he has to come in at the worst possible moment, just when you sound like a villain. It feels like you’re on the verge of tears, exhausted and stunned, and the extra’s expression flickers to something smug for the barest moment before looking almost painfully innocent.

“I’m really sorry,” she sighs softly, hanging her head; it’s an act, and not a very good one, but she’s pretty, “I just know you work in makeup and I thought you could help me find someone in costume to talk to; it’s okay, I’m sure I could find someone else.” It’s painfully scripted, and she plucks at the string of the bikini she was wearing nervously for effect, turning and heading away. 

“Take a break or something, you’re acting like a tool,” Colson says, and doesn’t let you get a word in edgewise, going after the girl, whose ruse had manipulated him just as she’d wanted. He’s introducing himself and you feel like death standing; you hear a snicker from behind you, and when you turn there’s one of the extra’s friends, another from the clique, smiling triumphant. 

When you get back to Corey’s trailer, he pauses where he’s eating a sandwich from Craft Services, and raises an eyebrow at you. You bite back your bitterness and pull your sweater from your bag, balling it up and using it as a pillow as you resigned yourself to napping beneath the row of makeup mirrors. Corey goes back to his lunch.

“You wanna talk about whatever this is?” Corey asks. You’re struggling to untangle your earphones after pulling them from your pockets.

“Unless you can do something about the asshole actors on set,  _no_ , I don’t want to talk about it.” You sigh, resigned and resolute. Corey nods, taking another bite of his sandwich.

“Fuckin’ actors.” He muses.

“Fuckin’ actors.” You agree. It’s not an honest statement regarding your feelings towards actors as a whole, but sometimes a few bad apples really did spoil the bunch, even if it was only for a moment. 

You get to nap, heart aching where you’re pretty sure Colson thinks you’re some work-obsessed asshole who thinks you’re better than the actors you work with. Which you obviously don’t, but daily bullying can wear down the nerves. It only takes a moment, one careless comment that came out too harsh for the likes of onlookers, and any good will you’d been building up seems to evaporate. Not to mention the lies you know the extra had probably been feeding him since the moment you left.

When Colson comes in to get his makeup removed for the day, the tension is so thick that to you it felt solid. You’re sitting in one of the makeup chairs, spinning idly, scrolling through your phone when the door opens; his gaze finds yours the moment he steps in, but he gives you a look, scrutinising, almost disbelieving, and he looks away.

“Do you need my help?” You asked Corey pointedly, your gaze shallow and tired. Colson was tying his wig into a bun already, a look you quietly adored, though he was refusing to look at you. God, the clique really had managed to slander you in only a few hours.

“No dear, go home and rest, you need it,” Corey smiles at you, and you’re already moving around, pulling on your sweater and collecting your things. You want to say something, say anything to the man who’s now regarding you icily, but soon enough some of the other members of the makeup team are here, like always to help speed up the removal process, and your voice gets caught in your throat.

“Hey,” by the door, you finally stop, “I don’t-” but your breath catches on a sigh, “I don’t have the energy for this; I’m not the asshole.” And you sound so  _defeated_ , but he doesn’t answer, just rolls his eyes and keeps scrubbing at the foundation on his skin. 

The moment you step into the trailer the next morning, same time as always, at the crack of dawn, you can already feel exhaustion settling into your bones.

“Take the day off,” Corey frowns at you, “Colson told me what those assholes told him; I’m gonna have a word with him about it this morning.”

“No, dude, I’ve gotta explain myself, if I take the day off it looks like I’m running away; I’m an adult, I don’t need you stepping in for me.” It takes you a moment, and you sigh, defeated, “listen, Corey, I actually really like Colson, okay? And I don’t want him to think less of me, so if that means I have to be up at  _too-fucking-early-o’clock_  convincing him I’m not a complete bitch, then so be it.” Corey can’t help the pitying look he gives you, but doesn’t say anything more on the subject.

You’ve worked in this industry for years, it’s not the first time something like this has happened; while working in close proximity to talented, famous individuals, outsiders sometimes get jealous. It’s easy to be told to try and ignore it, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt when someone you thought you were getting along well with completely ices you out because someone who’s jealous twists their opinion of you. 

It takes a full hour, the silence thick and heavily as Colson stood patiently as the makeup was applied, before you can work up the courage to say  _something_.

“What did she say to you?” It takes him a few moments to register what you’d said, but he frowns a little in confusion. “What did she say to you about me?” You reiterate, voice calm and level, focusing on your work as you speak, and his mouth opens as he goes to tentatively respond, but you don’t give him the chance, “because I can promise you she’s lying.” His mouth closes again, frown deepening. Corey is silent too.

“Well, I was told that you treat her like shit and don’t take her seriously just because she’s an actor, which is pretty fucked,” he admits with surprising candor. You have to take a moment to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. 

“It would be fucked  _if_ it was true.”

“But you don’t take her seriously. Apparently you ignore her when she comes to you for help.” And it hurts to hear him spout the slanderous rhetoric the extra had poisoned him with.

“It’s not Y/N’s job to help her,” Corey cuts in, much to both Colson’s and your own surprise, “and I’m sure if she had a  _real_ question, she would point her in the direction of someone who  _could_ help her. ” His tone doesn’t leave room for arguments, though Colson doesn’t exactly seem convinced; perhaps he assumed that you really were some heinous bitch who had turned the makeup department head to your side.

“I  _do_ take actors seriously,  _obviously_ ,” you gesture to him, and he makes an expression that’s a little unreadable, “but if you have to know, she and a group of other extras have been harassing me for weeks now, so  _yeah_ , I tend to ignore her.” 

Your hands are shaking. When did that start? God, when did you start caring so much about what he thought of you? When did the idea of him thinking badly of you start making your chest hurt. When did schoolyard bullying start getting to you so much? Things are moving in a blur, and you think you mumble something about getting a coffee before you leave the trailer. 

Corey finds you half an hour later at the corner store, staring blankly at the coffee machine, cup of undrunk, now cold coffee in hand.

“Go home. Please.”

You look at him, but his words aren’t really registering; he realises he may have interrupted a micronap. It appears you need rest far more badly than he realised. He sends you home for the rest of the week, and it’s a Wednesday. You want to protest, but you cut yourself off with a yawn and he calls an Uber for you without letting you get a word in edgewise. 

It’s practically radio silence for almost five days. 

You watch Netflix and eat junk and take baths and claim self care when really you’re wallowing, dreading going back to work. Sometimes you catch yourself just staring at your phone; you and Colson have each other’s numbers ‘ _in case of emergency_ ’, though what would constitute a makeup related emergency you’re not sure, it was his suggestion. Emergencies turned out to be him asking about call times, sending selfies from on-set where his face makeup was running from how much he was sweating, he’s grinning and bright and Douglas or Iwan or Daniel are pulling a face in the background, blurry photos of you on set that you hadn’t realised he’d been taking at the time. 

There’s one you stop at when you’re looking back through them, it’s another selfie, he’s squinting, having just woken up, and half cut out of the shot where he’s focused the camera on a smudge of foundation and a bit of eyeliner on his white pillowcase where he hadn’t managed to get all of the makeup off the night before. It’s surprisingly intimate, despite the fact that he’s followed it up with [💀😢].

You wanted to send something, to say something, but you weren’t sure what you had left to say. You weren’t in the wrong. You didn’t need to apologise. 

Sometimes you thought you saw the typing bubble appear, but it would disappear just as quickly.

You’re refreshed by the time you step back into the trailer on Monday morning, feeling almost chirpy, that is until you see that Colson’s arrived before you, and Corey’s nowhere around.

It’s not the same as last time, there’s no anger, no hostility in the way he’s regarding you, just a surprising pensiveness. He’s lounging in his makeup chair, watching as you put down your things and start rifling through the collection of makeup on the counter.

“Where’s Corey?” You ask, carefully neutral.

“Said he’s getting coffee.”

“That’s kind of him.” 

There’s a long pause that follow, and when you finally look at him, Colson seems to be considering you seriously.

“Do you have to be here?” Despite the words that are said, they don’t feel like an attack, instead they feel like a genuine question, bordering on concerned.

“It’s my job,” you start, but he smiles a little, and something in your heart eases.

“Yeah, no, I know, but you don’t always have to arrive this early, do you? I wouldn’t if I had the choice,” he snickers, and you sit back on one of the other chairs scattered about the edge of the room, waiting for Corey to get back, playing with a makeup sponge.

“Well you don’t, and neither does Corey, and…” hesitating a little, you fidget, avoiding his gaze, “it didn’t seem fair.” You shrug, laughing a little awkwardly, “leaving you here with him all that time.” Though you’re trying to clarify by means of a joke, he sees through it clearly, expression quickly morphing into a grin.

“So he was right.”

“About what?” You ask, looking at him with surprise and confusion written all over your face; this wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. 

“Corey’s pretty convinced you just like spending time with me,” you can feel yourself getting flustered, looking down at your fidgeting fingers.

“He’s such a snitch.” You mutter, and Colson actually laughs, and though you feel your anxiety holding tight in your chest, you force your next words from your mouth; “yes, okay, if we’re going full middle-school about this, I enjoy your company. A lot.” You pause for a moment. “Are we good?”

“Yeah, of course; I’m sorry I was a dick last week,” he actually gets serious for a moment, tone surprisingly humble as he speaks, “I just- there’s like this long history of people shitting on me and not taking me seriously, so it touched a nerve, but I should know you better than that, right? Like we’ve spent enough time together that I should know you’re not some entitled dick.” 

It’s enough to make you smile.

“Corey gave you a talking to, didn’t he?” You teased, and Colson rolled his eyes.

“Practically the moment you left; turns out those girls have had a few complaints from HR, situations like yours,” he sighs, before grinning a little, “but yeah, we’re good.” 

It’s as if a sudden elation comes over you, and you have to work to not let it show on your face, else you’re pretty sure you’re going to embarrass yourself at how happy that makes you. 

“And  _of course_  I take you seriously,” you hear yourself saying as you turn to rearrange the makeup on the counter, though you both know he can still see your pleased grin in the mirror, “I take all actors seriously, and you’re wonderful to work with-”

“Oh, so I’m  _wonderful_ now?” He snickers, though it’s not unkind, and you accidentally knock over a bottle in your embarrassment.

“Wonderful to work with,” you clarify, but he still takes the win, just as Corey finally walks in with three mugs of corner store coffee in hand.

“You were right,  _and_ she thinks I’m wonderful.” Colson practically preens, and Corey makes a face, before turning that face on you.

“I take it back; you’re the worst client I’ve had.” You deadpan, and Colson can’t help but laugh.

“No way, you’re not living this down,” he muses, smiling fondly at you. “I’m gonna tell everyone-”

“Christ, tell me you’ve at least asked her out,” Corey sighs, putting down the coffees, and that shuts Colson up quickly, “or do I need to go on another twenty minute coffee run to give you two some space?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer, just heads towards the door, announcing that he’s going to get a spare airbrush head from the other makeup trailer and that you have ten minutes.

“Sorry about him.” You say into the silence that follows in the wake of Corey’s departure. Colson’s surprisingly tight-lipped, avoiding looking at you. “He makes a lot of assumptions.” You add, getting to your feet and crossing to where the coffees sat in their little, cardboard carry-tray. Each cup has a name, and you take both yours and Colson’s, heading over to him with an expression that you hope is something akin to a friendly smile, and not a grimace of embarrassment.

“He’s right though,” Colson reaches out for his coffee when you offer it; his fingers brush your as he meets your gaze and it feels like a  _moment_. “You wanna grab dinner or something after today?” 

Mind whirling, part of you thinks he’s made a mistake, that he hadn’t meant to say it, another part worries about what the rest of the cast and crew will think, and part of you is worried it’s a joke. But you’re so sick of doubt.

“Yeah, actually I’d love to.”

The morning passes in a breeze, passes much more easily than it’s seemed to for the past month, and there’s butterflies in your stomach the entire time. There’s an electricity in the air during filming, though you’re pretty sure you’re the only one who can feel it. He’s wearing the wig with the undercut, sitting behind the drums up on the risers for most of the day, wearing only a pair of underwear, boots, and suspenders; it’s quiet a look. Somehow he’s still managed to sneak his phone up there because you’re zoning out at the side of the set, and he takes a photo of you, sending it to you; your eyes are glassy by you’re grinning to yourself, and once you get it, you look to him, and he’s grinning as if he’s waiting for your reaction. You roll your eyes at him, but you’re still smiling; you’ve missed this.

“You’re actually kind of sweet, aren’t you?” After filming wraps for the day, you’re crammed into a booth of the only restaurant open in town past ten. You’ve just ordered, and he’s leaning back, regarding you with amusement.

“I don’t know why that surprises people, most of my asshole act is just, you know,  _an act_ , for show or whatever,” he shrugs a little, smirking, “most of it; sometimes I  _am_ just an asshole.”

“I don’t know your asshole act,” you remind, smiling a little; there’s butterflies in your stomach but they’re excited rather than nervous, relishing in the way he’s smiling at you, “but I guess I should have know you better anyways; after all, we’ve spent enough time together, haven’t we?”


	30. M1 {Daniel Webber}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Daniel visit his family, and his mother is the one to pick you both up from the airport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so my home town is about an hour away from Daniel Webber’s home town and I was traveling back to this weekend and it turns out you take the same Highway back to mine as you do to his and I saw the sign for it and I was like fucking Gosford and then I was like…… he’s probably travelled on this highway, and then this idea seized me by the eyeballs and I wrote half of it half asleep in my childhood home and then half of it today after I got back to my uni home. I’m using talk to text so it’s a bit rambling. anyway no warnings just sickly fluff and I also don’t know anything about his actual family so this is all made up for fun, but if I, a suburban Australian, can’t romanticise suburban Australia, like, who will? So yeah I wrote this on my phone, pretty sure it’s not great, like genuinely I’m not super happy with it but it is what it is and it exists now.

His mother picks you both up from the airport. His manager had tried to insist on a personal shuttle to escort the two of you from the airport back to his family home, but his mother would not back down so easily. He has a place of his own, a car of his own, all in Sydney, but since you were only stopping in for a week for his dad’s birthday, it seemed silly to take his car only to drive it back and store it again before you’re off, jet setting back to America to start the press tour for The Dirt.

So now it’s nearly five at night, and you’ve just landed. You stretch and yawn in the line for customs, having thankfully yet uncomfortably slept for the better half of the flight from LA to Sydney; business class seats are very nice, but they’re not perfect. He’s tired too, travelling always makes him tired, suitcase in one hand, the other holding his passport and the documents he’d had to sign on the plane to reenter the country. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, only for you to look at him in confusion, before your mind registers the moment and it fades through to a soft, fond smile.

You kiss him gently, a quiet moment shared in the ’ _no declarations to be made_ ’ line at immigration, too tired to care about the blatant PDA, nor the potential onlookers. He just grins when he moves back, steps forward in the line, and you’re right beside him, leaning against him, excited beneath your exhaustion, to get to see his family and eat their home cooking again.

His dad always makes a mean barbeque whenever you and Daniel come back to his home town; his pineapple fritters are to die for, a family secret, he always says with an exaggerated wink. It makes you laugh and Daniel roll his eyes, though he’s smiling too.

He’d been so nervous the first time he’d brought you to meet them, and it was awkward and a little bit tense for all of three minutes before his dad cracked a joke to which you’d actually,  _genuinely_  laughed; you were in.

Back in the present, his mum’s waiting with a huge grin, waving and calling to you both as you descend the ramp from immigration to the departures collection point. She gives you both a big kiss on the cheek, talking a mile a minute, offering to take your things, asking if you need a hand with anything. Daniel assures her that you’re both right, but you’re still leaning against him, and you try to stifle a yawn.

“Please, sweetheart, at least let me take your suitcase; I know it’s on wheels but I parked a fair ways away and you look so tired.”

You don’t even have the energy to fight her on this, though you’re grateful when she takes the suitcase, leaving you with only your carry-on leave to deal with, which was far more manageable.

His mother talks a mile a minute, filling up the conversation enough for the three kg you without needing many interjections. Daniel adds an aside here and there as she updates him about the rest of the family, and she leans over with a kind smile, cutting you off where you’re mid-yawn, mentioning how excited the rest of the family is to see you. Ducking your head to hide your embarrassed smile, you murmur about being excited to be back too, and she doesn’t seem to require much more from you for the rest of the conversation, for which you’re grateful; you’re adjusting back to the Australian heat, and are still pretty tired, and at the very least she was good at recognizing and adapting to that.

Once at the car her chatter dies down as she pops the boot of the car and loads both your suitcases in. After a moment, she turns, sizing you both up, giving you a look you can’t quite describe, before she wraps Daniel in a tight hug. He leans into it, hugging her back tightly, and then she’s moving over to you, holding you just as tight as she did her son. It means something, like you’re safe, like you’re home, like something else sentimental you can’t quite describe. You hug her back.

And then she’s off again, shutting the boot and unlocking the rest of the car.

“You know, I’m so proud of you, Danny, but I always worry when you’re away, I’m your mother, it’s my job.” She laughs a little and gets in the driver’s seat, while you and Daniel climb in the back; he’s in the middle, leaning forward a little to talk to his mother, and you’re by the window seat, arm tucked into his as you look out the window to the parking garage, thoughts still a tired, hazy fog. “America’s such a terrible place to be right now.” His mother goes on to say, and neither of you in the back disagree, but then Daniel’s off and talking about his next project that’s set to start filming in Adelaide soon.

You’re halfway out kg Sydney before his mother suggests getting something to eat, stopping for dinner since home was still a few hours away. Daniel stifles a yawn, waves her off with a smile saying you’d been fed on the plane. His mother makes a face at that, makes a comment about the quality of plane food, and though neither you nor Daniel necessarily disagree, you’re too worn out to enjoy a restaurant meal. Taking one look at the both of you in the rear view mirror, his mother softens on the matter and agrees, gently assuring you that there would be food at home.

It takes time to get out of the rat race that is Sydney traffic at peak hour, and by the time you’re on the first stretch of the M1 bound for home, the sun is well and truly sinking below the horizon, painting the landscape between the trees golden.

There’s a dreamlike unreality to Australian highways at sunset, and when conversation dies down and his mother turns on the radio, you bask in it.

“I like coming back here with you,” Daniel’s voice is quiet. You’re leaving against him, tucked into his side with your head on his shoulder, enjoying the world through the windshield where it’s looking like an expressionist painting through your half closed eyes.

You hum, giving his arm a squeeze and turning to press a kiss to his shoulder in lieu of a real answer.

“You two are so cute,” you can hear the smile in his mother’s voice, can see the way her eyes crease with her grin as she glances back at you in the rear view mirror. You can’t help but snicker, pressing your faintly embarrassed grin into his shoulder. Daniel’s turning a little red.

“Thanks, Mrs Webber,” you laugh sleepily, and Daniel presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“We’ll be home in no time, dear,” his mother adds, “but if you wanna take a nap, go right ahead.”

The world dulls around you as you let your eyes drift closed, heeding her advice. Daniel and his mother’s side chatter becomes as easy to tune out as the radio as you drift to sleep going down the highway.

When he looks down, sees you napping soundly, even in this less than ideal position, Daniel’s heart softens. In a moment, he’s got an arm around you, pulling you closer and into a more comfortable position. In your sleep, you make a quiet hum of appreciation.

“Love you,” you mumble in your sleep, and he laughs quietly.

“Love you too,” he assures, and gets a smile and another pleased him in return.

“Daniel,” his mother says with a surprising amount of quiet seriousness once the moment had passed, and for a moment he’s worried, though those fears are almost immediately alleviated, “I really like them; I know I don’t say this a lot, but I’m proud of who you’ve turned into as a person, and I’m so glad you’re getting to share that with Y/N.” She pauses for a minute, grip still firm on the steering wheel add she looks out to the road, but she was smiling gently, “it warms my heart to see you so happy.”

There a long moment of silence in which he can’t help but grin, holding you a little tighter as he basks in the praise.

“I appreciate that, mum,” he says softly, “because, you know, I really think I made the right choice.”


	31. all the world {Gwilym Lee}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re cast as Helena in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the only problem is you find yourself falling for Gwil, who’s playing your love interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s a bit wanky and theatrey, but i’ve gotta say this is a strong comeback after my own show week hiatus. Shakespearean dialogue is in italics. it’s 7am. it’s probably not what you were expecting given the teaser. feedback appreciated.

You audition for a professional production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream on a whim. A Thursday afternoon with nothing better to do, you find yourself booking an audition through Facebook open call for the following weekend. You’ve never really considered yourself leading lady material, but that all changes when you’re sent an email not a week after that fateful night with the subject line reading ‘ _Congratulations!’_

The read through is nerve wracking; it’s a warm Sunday morning and your bag is full of highlighters and pencils and sticky tabs, and anything else you think you might need. You’d done community theatre here and there, already had a few Shakespeare shows under your belt and had somewhat of a handle on the language of the play, but you’d never been a  _professional Shakespearian actor_ , let alone one of the leads, and you were  _terrified_.

The director greets you with a smile, hands you a hard copy of the script, and makes small talk with you, trying to put you at ease, and it works fairly well, until, that is, she leaves to greet the next person to arrive. It’s a well known company, and the rehearsal space is set up with folding tables organised in a square, a space for each of the cast and crew. There’s already a few people here, scattered around; some seem to know each other, sitting beside one another and talking quietly amongst themselves.

Sitting yourself at one of the corners, you’re quiet as you pull out the things you’d brought, waterbottle included, from your bag, taking time before the reading to go through the script and start highlighting. People take their seats around you in the following fifteen minutes, though it feels like only five has passed before the director is calling everyone to attention, and only moments before you’re telling everyone your name, and that you’d be playing Helena, this earns you smiles from all the gathered cast and crew before they’re moving on to the person next to you.

The thing is that you  _know_ the story; you’d studied it in high school, or well, you’d said you’d read it when really you’d just listened to the teacher explain what was happening, and you’d half payed attention to the university production you’d seen at your teacher’s behest. So you remembered some of it. Enough of it to feel your heart jump as  _Gwilym Lee_ , five seats down from you, smiles and announces that he’d be playing  _Demetrius_.

 _Oh;_ so this was a  _real_ play, with actual actors, not that you  _weren’t_ a real actor, you’re nowhere near new to the theatre, it’s just that you’re pretty sure you know his name from the television, and that thought alone sets your heart beating at a nervous rhythm as you lean forward to look past the other actors at the table and give him as warm a smile as you can manage. His answering smile is kind, and it eases your heart somewhat.

What started out as a spur of the moment decision has already snowballed into being your first professional acting gig after years of volunteering, and you’re playing against an honest-to-God television actor. To say you were suddenly nervous was an understatement and a half. 

In the intermission, the production manager announces that there’s tea and coffee in the lobby and you gratefully make a beeline for it. There seems to be people all around you, wanting to meet you and say hi, and you greet them all with a smile, still buzzing with nervous energy as you eat one of the cookies they had arranged next to the kettle, and it helps to be able to place characters to faces.

“Y/N, isn’t it?” And then there he is, the man you’re reading against, going to be playing against; tall and kind faced where he’s smiling at you.

“Yeah, Gwilym, right?” You smile back, offer your hand, pretend like you’re not freaking out internally. He shakes your hand firmly, before reaching past you to grab a biscuit of his own. He asks you about the play, about your thoughts on the characters and the story.

“Well it’s a bit messed up, isn’t it?” You hear yourself saying, voicing the thought that had been bugging you since you’d reread the script the other night, “Demetrius ends up living a lie.” For a moment, you’re worried that Gwil might be confused or concerned, that he hadn’t considered the awful implications the play refuses to discuss.

“He’s still under the potion’s effects at the end, isn’t he?” He says, shaking his head, setting about getting himself a cup of tea, “’really isn’t all sunshine and roses the way the play presents; I guess that’s why they stop it where they do.” And then he’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but laugh a little, nod and agree.

He changes the subject, asks if you’d been in many shows before, makes comment that you seem to already have a handle on the script; he seems impressed, and you feel yourself getting a little flustered at his praise. It’s all you can do to tell him you’d done a few Shakespearean shows before this one, though never on a scale like this, before the director is calling everyone back in.

Thankfully, the rest of the read through goes just as smooth. Though it’s flat, as any read through usually is, there’s a easy rapport between yourself and the other leads, especially Gwilym, and by the time you’re listening to  _Puck’s_ final monologue, the butterflies in your stomach had eased considerably.

With you working your regular job from home, it’s easy to make time for rehearsals. Before each rehearsal, you make sure to sit down with the scene or section you’re scheduled to go over the following day, and try and learn your lines the best you can, though it’s difficult if you don’t have someone else reading your cues, and after a few weeks, you finally voice your concern.

“I’m having a bit of trouble with some of Act Three, do you think we could sit down and go through it?” You find yourself asking Gwil during a break one afternoon, “I mean, I know you’re busy but-”

“No, of course, I’ve been meaning to ask you about going through the script;” he’s agreeing so readily, asking if you’re free after rehearsals, making mention that he had some thoughts about characterisation that he’d like to bounce off of you before bringing them to the director, and that’s how you find yourself agreeing to get coffee with Gwilym after rehearsals on a Wednesday afternoon.

He’s easy to talk to, if a little serious at times, but that was part of his charm, you were coming to find. The two of you talk about the script, about the direction you both wanted to take your characters in. As he takes a moment to wax poetic about how fickle Demetrius is, you can’t help but be enthralled by him. Watching the way his eyes shine, the distracted smile he wears as he talks about his character, you find your mind wandering, just a little, admiring the way he gestures when he talks and how he leans forward when he gets really invested in what he’s saying. 

By the time he stops speaking, looking down at his script with the slightest frown that he can’t quite believe he’d let himself go off on a tangent like that, you have to forcibly zone yourself back in.

“I just can’t quite believe Helena would still choose him after everything that happens,” he finally admits, and at this, your eyes light up, and you’re flicking through your notebook as he’s asking you if you’d had any insight what motivates your character to stay with Demetrius after the play ends.

“I do!” You enthuse, flipping open the character profile you’d written at the start of the whole process, and Gwil can’t help but smile at your sudden energy, “Helena- so they were actually together before the play started, like she was full-on in love with him, and then Demetrius sees Hermia and is like, just ready to get with the shiniest, most newest, pretty girl he sees,” Gwil nods, though this is all things he knows, and you continue, “but Helena, she still loves him, to an honestly unreasonable level, I’d say; her whole character can be defined by that Dickens quote, you know, ‘ _I loved against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be_ ’.” After rattling off the quote, reading it from your notebook, you beam for a moment, taking pause to let yourself have a sip of your drink, though clearly not finished. When you look back at him, there’s something in Gwil’s eyes that you can’t quite place, it’s as if he’s enamoured by your enthusiasm, and you have to look away.

“She, uh, I think in her heart she knows that something’s wrong at the end, Hermia and Lysander are happily reunited, but she’s being selfish the way she’d watched Demetrius be; she’s taking her happy ending into her own hands. She’s taking her prize; the love she thinks she deserves, like has fought for, or is owed for what she’s gone through,” you laugh a little, scratching at the back of your neck in a moment of self consciousness, “not that anyone is owed love or anything; I don’t know, they’re all a bit selfish really.”

“I’ve never really considered that angle,” Gwilym’s voice is surprisingly quiet, soft and contemplative. He’s been listening to you so intently, nodding every so often, smiling just a little as he thinks over the side of your character you present, and you’re relieved when he starts looks down, flicking through his script. 

He looks so pretty, hair falling into his eyes, concentration written all over his face, and you can feel it as it’s happening, the crush you’re already beginning to develop. Though perhaps, you consider, it’s not the worst thing in the world, especially not when considering your characters.

You run lines for almost a full forty minutes before deciding to part ways, though he hesitates once you’re both in the cool evening air. After a beat, he offers his phone number, for if you wanted to run lines again or discuss the play outside of rehearsals. In turn, you tell him you’re looking forward to getting into the blocking with him, and he gives a sunny smile, agreeing brightly.

Gwilym is easily one of the best scene partners you’d had in theatre, always checking in with you, polite and respectful while out of character, taking pains to never go too far while in character. After only a few rehearsals it was clear the pair of you made a dynamic duo both on and off stage. The two of you had started a group chat with the other two actors playing Hermia and Lysander, and the four of you often got food together after a long rehearsal, reflecting on what you’d just finished working on.

If, at these little gatherings, you’d find yourself sitting close to Gwil, leaning against him more often than was really necessary, your shared banter turning to teasing that bordered on flirting, you could easily pass it off as a side effect of playing lovers. Gwil himself didn’t seem to complain, he’d made it clear he enjoyed your company, would throw his arm around you if you were sharing a booth and either one of you was telling a story.

This particular rehearsal, only a month out from opening night, the four of you have been brought together to polish the blocking for the beginning of the fight, the moment when  _Demetrius_ wakes up. Gwilym is draped on the tables they’ve got as a stand in for the set, wearing a loose button down to rehearse in, and you’re grinning at him as the director is flicking through her notes.

“You look comfortable,” you grin at him, and he looks up from where he’s fiddling with one of the prop flowers. Honestly, he looks decidedly  _not_ comfortable, too tall for the tables, which are lined up by width rather than height, by over a foot, his legs hanging uselessly over the edge. He kicks his leg into the air before leaning back on the table.

“The things I do for theatre,” he sighs, sounding  _terribly_ faux put upon, before he drops the bit and smiles, after a moment, his gaze flicks to his bag at the side of the studio, “actually, could you grab my jacket? I could use it as a pillow.” 

With a half smile you collect the jacket and head back to him, eyebrows raised, giving him as much of an exasperated look as you could manage. 

“You’re lucky I love you,  _Demetrius_ ,” you tease, and his smile turns to a grin and you yelp as he pulls you insistently onto the table.

“ _O Helen! goddess, nymph, perfect, divine!_ ” He rattles off, squeezing your cheeks affectionately as you lean over him, hands braced on his chest, still holding his jacket. “To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy.” And he laughs a little, expression fond, mirroring your own. You ball up his jacket, leaning back and tossing it at him as you play exasperated.

“ _O hell! I see you are bent to set against me for your merriment: if you were civil and knew courtesy, you would not do me thus much injury._ ” You respond, very matter-of-fact, as he props his head up with the jacket, and you move to sit yourself beside him on the table. To the side, Lysander and Hermia’s actors were running through their lines, and the director was deep in conversation with her assistant. 

“Thank you,” Gwil says, a teasing edge to his words when he breaks the flow of dialogue, and when you look back at him, he’s grinning, one hand behind his head. “How are you going with lines? Anything you want to go over while we wait?” 

“I’ve got most of them, but I don’t mind running through some if you want to,” you offer. In the time you have before rehearsals officially start, he suggests speed-running through the lines for your first scene in the woods, and as the first line leaves his lips -  _I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. -_ his eyes fall closed as the two of you fall into a fast rhythm with your words.

As you speak, he comes to rest a hand on your knee as you swing your legs over the edge of the table, looking out at the rehearsal space. There’s a few moments where he’ll give your leg a squeeze for emphasis, and you lean back a little against him, getting into the argument, the rhythm slowing as emotion bleeds through into your words, just the way you’ve rehearsed them.

“ _And I am sick when I look not on you_ ,” you sigh, forlorn and dramatically love sick, giving in and leaning back over him, your torso arched over his stomach as you uncomfortably come to rest your head on the table. It’s awkward, but he doesn’t complain, just wraps an arm around you, keeping you laying back against him as he delivers his monologue, keeping it light despite how dark it’s usually played; you’re both slipping into melodramatic, and you grab his hand when he’s finished, lifting his arm so you can turn on your side, propping yourself up with one arm braced over where your head was resting, still leaning against him, tone melodramatic and silly before you see him actually looking at you, expression soft and gentle as the lines are drawing to a close.

“ _For you in my respect are all the world:_ ” when you speak the lines with an honest softness, he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t glare at you in character, just gives you a look full of genuine affection, and you feel compelled to continue, “ _then how can it be said I am alone, when all the world is here to look on me_?”

“It’s quite a beautiful line, isn’t it?” And as he says it there’s that  _spark_ of something that’s been growing between the two of you; you’d done so well to not let your crush on him overwhelm you, but at moments like this, you can’t help but feel like you’re not the only one feeling something.

“It’s very romantic,” you agree softly, and after a  _long_ moment, where he just fixes you with a fond gaze, like he’s trying to commit this image of you to memory, like he wants this moment to never end just as badly as you do, he takes his hand from yours and gently holds your cheek.

“ _I’ll run from thee and hide me in the brakes, and leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts._ ” But his heart’s not in his lines. His thumb is brushing your cheekbone, his gaze tracing the movement, not quite meeting your gaze, his voice gentle and kind. If you could freeze this moment and stay in it for eternity, you think you would.

So you lean into it.

“ _The wildest hath not such a heart as you._ ” Letting your eyes flutter closed, you lean into the warmth of his hand against your cheek, faint, content smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “ _Run when you will-_ ”

The moment shatters when the director calls out that that’s exactly the sort of emotion she’s looking for in this scene from Gwil, and you sit up so suddenly you almost twist something, only to see the stage manager and other two cast members watching.

“You guys are great, seriously perfect casting,” the stage manager notes with a nod, before starting the warm up music. As you hop off the table, you feel embarrassment course through you, but then Gwil’s reaching out, giving your shoulder a squeeze, and you find yourself smiling; you weren’t the only one stuck in that moment.

Moments like that become more and more frequent, in contrast to his character; there’s moments on stage where he’s looming and menacing, or lovestruck and handsy, pushing your around in either scenario, and it’s so easy to trust him in those moments that it’s easy for the two of you to push past what’s traditionally and publicly completely acceptable.

During breaks, you usually stick together to get food or snacks, and sometimes after a full run, you both go back to one of your flats to eat pizza and watch TV, taking comfort in being able to unwind with one another. 

But  _nothing_ of note happens, much to your frustration, though that’s partially your own fault; for all he’s never really initiated anything, neither have you, too worried about how it would effect the performance. It’s easier to stage kiss, and to walk the tightrope of  _almost, maybe,_ than it is to jeopardise the production.

But all too quickly it’s opening night, and everything feels  _electric_ , feels  _alive_ , and the theatre has you and Hermia in your own dressing room, and you’ve never been in a dressing room with less than six people and it’s so exciting and overwhelming and-

You’ve been staring at yourself in the mirror, zoning out, for almost twenty minutes. You really need to start getting ready.

The call for actors to preset comes over the speakers in the dressing room almost an hour and a half later, and you think you’re ready, running through some vocal warm ups.

“Knock knock,” the moment you hear Gwil’s voice, you stop where you’ve been pacing, and let yourself breathe, smiling. He’s almost unbearably handsome in costume, and the woman playing Hermia gives a knowing smile, excusing herself to head to the stage.

“Hey, hi,” you breathe, stomach still in knots at the idea of a real audience coming to see the show; the early reviews had been all quite favourable, but this was the real test, “you ready?” You asked, and Gwil’s endeared smile did help to settle your nerves.

“I think so; what about you?” He asks, stepping into the room. Immediately you step to him, as if drawn to him, and he wraps you in a side hug as the two of you examine yourselves in the mirror.

“As I’ll ever be,” you give an unconvincing smile, but he just hugs your tighter. 

“We’re gonna be great,” and he pauses, hesitates like he wants to do or say something else, but can’t quite do it. Instead, he steps back, “you’ll be fantastic, you always are.” And he leaves before you can say anything else, tongue somehow frozen in your mouth. It’s here, now, you realise he’s got the same fear, the same feelings as you, and it seems like less of a risk to go after what you want, knowing that he wants it too.

The first act passes in a blur, no fumbling lines, high energy, easily one of the best performances you’d ever given, filled with this new determination, this new resolve. 

You playing into it well in your next scene; your first with Gwil, chasing him on stage as he stalks through the forest looking for  _Helena_.

“ _Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair?_ ” He asks, hands on your shoulders, holding you at bay where you, as Helena, work to just be as close to him as physically possible, “ _Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth tell you I do not nor I cannot love you?_ ” And he pushes you away, putting distance between the two of you, rubbing his brow.

“ _And even for that do I love you the more._ ” You cry, launching yourself at him as had been practiced, the momentum carrying as you both span around and he threw you back to the floor. The scene plays out, but you can both feel how the energy has shifted, the tension between you almost at breaking, bleeding over into the way you speak to each other, anger being an easy, but misinterpreted outlet for your mutual frustrations.

Then, you’re taking his hand, giving him a doe-eyed expression as the lines that leave your lips -   _And I am sick when I look not on you._  - are said full of longing. He moves swiftly, following the stage directions that have him grabbing you by the arm and moving to the side of the stage by the proscenium arch.

And for just a moment, he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you, his hands on your hips as he presses you against the proscenium arch. Heart beating heavy against your ribs, you feel yourself melting under his touch.

“You do impeach your modesty too much,” he growls, and you think you can actually feel the tension in the room rise. Someone in the audience draws in a breath sharply, everyone in the theatre holding on to his every word, just as you were, “to leave the city and commit yourself into the hands of one that loves you not,” and just as it’s scripted, you push yourself off the wall, though he doesn’t move, and you press yourself against him, your eyes on his lips.

“To trust the opportunity of night,” and he leans into you, voice dropping low, his hands firm on your hips as he pulls you flush against him, leaning so you can’t help but lean back, your back leaning against the wall once more, “and the ill counsel of a desert place with the rich worth of your virginity.” As if to prove his point, he grabs your ass, but you can’t help but wet your lips, swallowing hard.

 _Demetrius_ is trying to be menacing, trying to give  _Helena_ a warning, but it doesn’t sink in, not like it should. Instead, your gaze softens and you look to his eyes, your own expression lovesick, hand coming to rest gently at his jaw.

“Your virtue is my privilege.” Your voice is a murmur, projecting for the audience, but still somehow intimate, softer and more sincere than it had ever been in rehearsals, and for the barest moment, a glimmer of fondness passes over Gwil’s eyes before it’s gone, and he’s shoving himself away from you, stalking across the stage. You follow in earnest, just as it is scripted.

Desperate and lovestruck you follow him around, let yourself get thrown to the ground, clinging to him only to be shoved away, and when he leaves, it’s with a forlorn longing that you promise to follow him, exiting just moments after he had, as the fairies begin their plotting as you leave. 

“Hey,” the moment you step past the wings, Gwil’s there, breathless, elated and grinning, and you can’t help but match his energy, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze, “good job,” he murmurs, and you nod adamantly, sharing the same sentiment back.

“Hey, after the show-” you muttered, moving further off stage, still half listening as the next scene played out and you waited for your cue, but after a beat, as you trailed off, you looked to Gwil, who was waiting with eyebrows raised. “Actually, you know what, fuck it,” you muttered, and pulled him in for a kiss; without hesitation, he was kissing you back, his lips warm against yours, gentle where he was afraid of ruining your makeup. “For luck, better late than never,” you laughed, awkwardly, still soft-voiced.

“For luck?” 

“Among other things,” you grin sharp and pleased, making your way to side of stage. 

The show comes easily after that,  _Lysander’s_  doting upon you, followed by  _Demetrius_ ’, the fight running like a well oiled machines as the four of you shove and threw each other around the stage, before leaving, being called back by the fairies to fix the emotions they’d stirred by accident.

And when all four sleeping lovers are woken, Demetrius finds his way to you; Gwil’s arm is around you, as you meet the king. His grip on you is firm, secure, and you lean against him, the affection in your eyes as real as can be.

“And all the faith, the virtue of my heart, the object and the pleasure of mine eye, is only Helena.” Gwil explains, turning to you as he still spoke to the king, his expression equal parts fond and amused, to have found himself here, with you, knowing the way you both feel after everything had happened, somehow it almost feels inevitable.

His monologue comes to a close and he presses his lips to yours, his arms around your waist. Your hands come to threat your fingers through his hair, and he smiles at that, the kiss less staged than it had ever been before. Breaking apart, you let the play move on around you, but you don’t let him go.

You let yourself, for just a moment, feel a little superior to your character, the dear Helena that you play, because as you come on for the bows, excitement setting the rhythm of your heart beating quick and hard against your ribs, you know it’s not fairy magic keeping your Demetrius by your side; he’s there because he wants to be with you just as much as you want to be with him.

When you leave the stage, he grabs your hand before you can abscond to your dressing room, and he’s smiling so bright, so adoringly at you that you can’t help but grin back. No words pass between you as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you in for a kiss, warm and insistent like the hurried, side-of-stage kiss hadn’t been allowed to be.

“Was that for luck too?” You ask with a soft laugh, not stepping back in the now mostly empty hallway. Gwil just hums, shaking his head.

“We don’t need it; that went damn well fantastic.” 

“ _I have found you, like a jewel_ ,” expression softening, you can’t help but dip your head, a little self conscious at the words you’re reciting, “ _mine own, and not mine own_.” You murmur against his collar.

“You’re a sap,” he laughs gently, but not unkindly, “and you  _riddle very prettily._ ” After a beat, you pull back and press a quick kiss to his lips. “Let’s go get changed and then we can get dinner.” He offers, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you sigh, sagging with relief in his arms.

“Great plan,” you agree, feeling the adrenaline from the show starting to leave you already. You step back from him with a wry smile, “pretty good for an opening night; one show down, three weeks to go.”


	32. i'll leave early {Machine Gun Kelly}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: slow dancin’ with anybody you choose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have used this prompt more effectively but life’s full of little disappointments. so there’s a party happening at my house in a few weeks and i’ve just been shitty and stressed about it because i get home late so i’ll arrive to the party late, but i was talking to boyo and i asked if i could hang out with him instead of going to the party altogether, and he said yes, because he said he probably wouldn’t go, and then he says ‘even if i do go, i’ll leave early’ and i almost cried, and that’s where the title comes from. First of the prompt renaissance. Written in an hour and a half. Musician!Reader, set in america, v soft and a bit uhh?? gentle angst i guess. Please give some feedback? It’s a bit experimental in style, I hope you enjoy!!

He’s away, on tour, in hotel beds, in tour buses, away from you, and it’s June but it feels  _so cold_. 

Life is static, holding down the fort, holding the torch, waiting, always waiting. So static it’s like you’re starting to lose feeling in your legs, your life; it’s June and you’re getting frostbite in the heat. Everything feels numb -  _come home, come home -_ and you sit at home watching his Instagram story, listen to his album, FaceTime him when you can, a brief reprieve.

Of course you could live without him, of course you are; you wear blush and a sun hat and look like you’re thriving, but you’re allowed to miss, allowed to  _want,_ allowed to feel the loneliness like it aches. He’s been gone for so long, and it feels like the days between phone calls get longer and longer and longer and  _longer_.

He looks tired.

Stubble; cute but unkempt, and bags you can see beneath his eyes for the subtle dusting of concealer. He’s got his crew, got Slim and Rook and now he’s got Yungblud -  _so talented, so talented, so far away_ \- but the way he speaks about the tour, he’s always on the move, always doing something or going somewhere or jumping around like it’s his God given mission. 

When you ask if he’s coming home soon, he gives the first real smile he’s given all conversation -  _soon, soon, always soon._ He misses you, the words spill from his lips, from his smile; maybe it’s not the sun thawing you this balmy June morning.

Like moves on, moves forward, drags you with it, it won’t let you stop, won’t let you freeze, won’t let you stagnate too much. Meetings and interviews and recording sessions your own career staggers forwards, one foot in front of the other into the future. The world holds it’s breath waiting for what you’ll deliver, you along with them without him there to help fight off the self doubt that’s made a home for itself in your studio.

He’s proud, you don’t see it but he’s proud. He catches your interviews when he can, listens to the samples you send. He won’t hold his breath with the rest of the world because his words to you are reassurances, without hesitation, without reservation -  _you’ve got this; you’ve always got this_. Between nights out and days prepping for performances, you’re the constant against the landscape that’s become an impressionist blur beyond the tour bus windows.

You look tired.

Interview makeup and hair done by hands that aren’t yours, the downturn of your lips is the most real thing about you, the yawn that claws it’s way up your throat is all your own. Telling him you’re fine, you can’t quite smile. Beautiful but a little tragic.

July feels like an eon, and he’s melting, unfocused in the heat. Screaming fans and a new sound and lyrics that might be too honest, he feels too raw already. No time to recover.

Of course he could live without you, without the rumours that follow him, the allegations of cheating that he knows aren’t true and hopes you don’t believe and wishes would die down. Everyone seems to know everything about the two of you before either of you do. 

How did it come to this, to missing you like a physical ache, like a punch to the gut, like a phantom limb. He thinks he lives his life on the tight rope between fucked up and being fucked over; when it gets bad he tries to pick fights, to push you away, to keep you safe, but you stay despite reason. Finally,  _finally_ , words will die in his throat when the fight’s left him, like you’ve sapped the frustration and the fear and the -  _the rage, the fucking rage at all the shit the world’s put him through_ \- and he’s left standing in his kitchen with your arms around him. The ringing in his ears turns to you.  _Can’t get rid of me that easily_. He doesn’t want to.

So when you call, looking weak, exhausted, and it’s all he can feel too, he tells you to pack your bags, that he’s flying you out to wherever he is. He can’t come home, he’s still on tour, but he’ll bring his favourite piece of home to him. 

You ask what you’ll even be doing there, and he answers -  _anything, anything you want._

You can’t say what you want.  _I miss you, I miss you, I miss you_.

“When I get there, what if you’re doing something?”

“I’ll leave early.”

Maybe you hug for too long in the airport, maybe you can hear people whisper and see phones photographing you, and maybe you don’t care. It’s been so strange, to be away for so long, to know he left an important interview to come pick you up, to realise you’d put your life on hold just to see him again on the other side of the country. It’s worth it. He won’t let you go and it’s so worth it.

All you want is to rest, to rest and to be with him. Quietly he’s thankful, he’s remembering just why he loves you, he’s glad you always somehow know exactly what he needs. Pizza in his hotel room behind a locked door, a plush bed with his arm around you while you watching fucking cartoons and you laugh like they truly are the funniest things in the world. The world outside the window lights up with the excitement of a Saturday night, but the curtains are drawn and you’ve brought a sample of the songs you’ve been working on. 

It’s raw, tone little tired, a little forlorn, slower than your usual stuff, but painfully heartfelt. But he’s nodding along. Getting to your feet, you’re offering a hand, offering a dance and a smile and he could never say no to that. Not the expected reaction, but a welcome comfort for you both. Swaying -  _gentle, gentle, the world doesn’t get to see him gentle_ \- he listens to the lyrics, the melody your heart beats to. His arms are around you when you turn bashful, apologetic, the style’s unexpected, not your usual, an experiment, a moment of honesty, but he bats it away -  _don’t apologise, never apologise._ He holds you closer, listens to the lyrics, the workshop in his mind already dissecting it, already looking forward to working on it with you if you asked him to -  _you will, you always do_.

But for now, he just spins you, catches you, and flops back on the bed, pulls you down beside him. You’ve earned a break, earned this moment with his arms around you, as he’s earned it too. 

A night won’t bring you back from exhaustion, but it thaws your mind, the stagnated ideas and concepts you’ve been ruminating on. Of course you could live without him, thrive without him, but no-one gets you quite like him.

It’s the start of August, and the air feels warm again.


End file.
